See You
by SythiaSkyfire
Summary: What if, in Mockingjay, Katniss snuck into Peeta's hospital room/cell to watch over him while he was asleep? And what if, one day, he woke up? How would he react to the "mutt" watching him sleep? A less angsty, more fluffy version of Mockingjay. K/P.
1. Chapter 1

**Something a little different this time, guys. Let me know what you think. Should I continue?**

**Description in the... well... description.**

_**Disclaimer: Anthing you recognize, such as characters, I do not own. I don't own the images used in the cover, either, though I did put it together to make the overall cover image. So no suing, please. :) This disclaimer pretains to all the chapters in this story.**_

* * *

The security guard gives me a halfhearted glare as I pad past him on bare feet, but doesn't make any move to stop me. Ever since I drugged his coffee, he's let me come and go pretty much as I please. As long as it's after dark.

"Be gone by four thirty," he reminds me gruffly.

Four thirty. The time I will have to leave. Because if I'm not gone before five, one of two things happen. Either the doctors come and find me and throw a fit, probably forbidding me from ever coming again, or Peeta will wake up. He'll see me. He'll get upset. And then I'll definitely never be able to come again.

The door opens and closes with just a whisper of sound, I'm so practiced at slipping in. How long has it been since the first time? When I raced past the guard when his back was turned, with a wildly thumping heart? At least two weeks. I let my eyes adjust to the dark for a few seconds before moving to Peeta's bed and carefully sinking down on the edge. I take a deep breath, and then, as usual, the waterworks start. By now I've trained myself not to make the slightest sound, even when I'm bawling my eyes out, so I don't make any move to wipe away the first few tears.

A soft, small green light pulses from a machine on the opposite side of the bed. There's the quiet rumbling sound of the security guard rolling his swivel chair across the room on the opposite side of the one-way glass, apparently tired of watching me. Everything is exactly like it has been for the past two weeks. Except… Something's different. I raise my head from where it's been resting against my knees and look around. A pair of bright blue eyes meet mine.

I jump and almost gasp, but manage to stifle it with my palm.

"Is this a dream?" Peeta asks. Then he blinks. "Wait… Yes, of course it's a dream. If it was real you'd be trying to hurt me."

Another few tears streak down my face and I glance at the one-way glass. Nothing. Either the guard has the sound system turned off or he fell asleep.

"You're not going to, are you?" Peeta asks suddenly, doubt shadowing his voice.

I shake my head, and the tears hanging from the outline of my jaw and chin are scattered. "No," I whisper. Then I go back to slumping forward, my fingertips almost brushing the cool floor and my forehead pressed into my knees. Like a puppet with its strings cut. I shudder as another round of completely silent sobs runs through me. I wonder if this is what it's like to be and Avox. Maybe I can just stop speaking altogether. It would make my life easier, I think.

"Why are you crying?" Peeta pauses. "People in dreams don't usually cry. They're either happy or trying to kill me. Or both. So, what's with you? Aren't you supposed to be a mutt?"

I wince. Mutt. That's what he calls me now. But he's obviously being bold because he believes he's in a dream, and I might never get the chance to talk to him like this again. So I swallow hard and whisper, "I'm hurting. That's why I'm crying. You of all people must understand that."

"What hurt you?"

I dig my fingernails into my scalp, and the pain helps me wake up a little. "You."

I hear him shift. "_I_ hurt _you_? I think you have that backwards, Mutt."

This time I can't smother the choked sound that comes out of my mouth. "I'm not a Mutt," I say in a voice full of exhaustion. "I'm just someone who has been completely, irreparably broken."

I stand up and move towards the door, but Peeta says harshly, "Stop. You're not leaving."

"Says who?"

"I do. This is my dream, so you can't do anything about it except turn into a nightmare, and then I'll wake up anyway."

"I'm not a dream, Peeta. I'm really here."

It occurs to me a few seconds too late that I shouldn't have said that. Peeta's eyes widen, and he clenches his hands, like he's trying to break his skin with his fingernails. Testing if he's awake. Once he's figured out that I'm telling the truth, several expressions flash across his face. I can make out panic, fear, anger, and, most of all, confusion.

Before I know what's happening, Peeta is standing and I'm flung back against a wall, pinned by my shoulders. I open my mouth to scream for the security guard, but a hand clamps down over my lips.

"I knew it," Peeta snarls. "You came in here to kill me in my sleep, didn't you? Thought I'd be an easier target."

I shake my head slowly. In some strange, backwards way, I'm slightly comforted to feel Peeta's hand on my face. Even though he's trying to keep me from yelling, even though he may start strangling me at any second, I can't help but to notice that his skin smells like nutmeg. He must have been baking today. I let my arms go limp at my sides, no longer trying to push him away.

His hand lifts, maybe out of confusion, and I say quietly, "If you're going to kill me, go ahead. Get it over with."

His eyes narrow and I close mine. Okay. This is okay. Not such a bad way to die. They don't really need me for propos anymore, and Prim can take care of herself now. I won't regret dying. Maybe I'll see Rue. I take a deep breath, not because I'm scared it might be my last but because I want to catch that whiff of spices again.

"You're confusing me." There's an iciness in Peeta's voice that makes me shiver.

"I'm sorry."

For a long time, Peeta says nothing. I focus my eyes on that little green light, wondering what's going to happen in the next few minutes. If I'll be alive in the morning. If I care.

At last he says, "Why have you been coming here?"

I look up, surprised. "You knew I was here before?"

"Not at first, but you left clues. There was always a shape at the foot of the bed like someone had been sitting there. One of your hairs stuck to the blankets one time. I would dream about hearing someone crying, but in the dream, there was no one there. I figured it out a few days ago, so since then, I've been staying awake trying to see who it was. And it's you. And you came to kill me."

I don't even have the energy to shake my head. I just sigh.

"But, if you've been coming here for a while, why haven't you killed me before?"

"I don't want to kill you." I give a humorless laugh. "You've got that feeling covered by yourself."

Slowly, the pressure on my shoulders is lessening. My arms start tingling and I realize that my shoulders have gone numb since Peeta smashed them against the wall. "So what do you want?" he asks suspiciously.

I give up and my legs crumple under me. Peeta jumps back, like I'm planning on kicking his feet out from underneath him, but I just lean against the wall with one fist over my forehead to try to squelch the headache coming on. I realize that I'm crying again when I whisper, "I just wanted to see you."

"See me?" His voice is dagger-sharp, but then… less so. "Why?"

I grimace. "I miss you." _How's that for honesty?_ I ask myself. _Looks like I really can be truthful sometimes. No acting. No cameras._

I'm so tired. In the last two weeks, I've gotten maybe ten hours of sleep total. I'm not even sure how I'm still alive. Shouldn't I have collapsed more than a week ago? I just want to close my eyes and go to sleep. I might not open them again. I start humming, very quietly, and I can almost feel Rue's head in my lap. _Oh, Rue, I'm sorry,_ I think for the millionth time. _I should have stayed with you until the Gamemakers chased me away, singing to you. I shouldn't have left you so soon. I'm so sorry._

I feel myself being yanked to my feet, pulled by my elbow, but my feet are too clumsy to support my weight anymore. I try to stand- really try- but a wave of dizziness sweeps over me and I lurch forward, pressing my lips together to avoid being sick.

"What's the matter with you?" Peeta asks, sounding alarmed. I stretch out my fingers and feel cloth. Odd. I must have fallen into his arms. And he's not letting me fall. _This is nice,_ I think hazily.

At last I shrug to answer his question. What _is_ wrong with me? Other than the fact that I haven't slept in days… and I've hardly eaten… and the last time I drank anything was yesterday morning… On second thought, I think I do know what's wrong with me.

My head sinks onto something soft. A pillow. Peeta has placed me on the bed.

He wraps a fist around my bony arm and demands, "When did you last eat anything?"

"Um…"

"What about water? When did you last have that?"

_What do you care? I thought you wanted me dead._ "Yesterday, I think."

"How much?"

"I don't know," I snap. "When was the last time you ate a grape? Do you remember that? No? Then why should I?"

For some infuriating reason, a ghost of a smile appears on Peeta's face. "That's right. You're stubborn."

"Darn right," I mutter. Now that I'm angry, I'm thinking more clearly. I can't just give up. Letting Peeta kill me is one thing, but starving myself is out of the question. I deiced to eat a substantial breakfast tomorrow, and no matter how sick it makes me, I'll keep it down. God, I'm hungry. Famished. I could eat a cow. I could eat ten cows.

Peeta frowns again. "You're…" he starts. "You're not a mutt, are you?"

"I told you, no. What made you come to your senses?"

He hesitates. "I don't think I'd be this worried if I thought a mutt was killing herself."

"I am not killing myself," I cry indignantly, pushing myself up on my elbows. "I am perfectly healthy, thank you very much."

One of my elbows is swiped out from underneath me and I fall back to the mattress with a grunt. My vision swims. _Ow,_ I think. _My head hurts. Why does my head hurt?_

"Yeah," Peeta scoffs. "Healthy. I can see that." I open my eyes, although I don't remember closing them, and find myself staring up into Peeta's crystal blue ones. The pupils look almost normal. No black drowning the blue. "You're not going to die," he orders. "I… I forbid it."

I feel my lips part in shock. "You… I… I said that! In our first games! I said that and you remembered!"

Peeta frowns. "Of course I remember. I was there." His frown changes to a scowl of concentration. "Wasn't I?" He shakes it off after a few seconds and suddenly he's heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" I choke, sitting bolt upright and clutching my head at the resulting stab of pain in my temples.

"To get help for you. I may not know much…" Peeta turns around and gives me a worried, almost typical-Peeta look. "But I can tell you're not doing too well."

"Don't leave." It comes out a whisper. "I can do it. I have a coms unit. Haymitch made me wear it."

Peeta strides over and plucks the earpiece off my ear in one smooth motion. Then he flicks it on and says, "Haymitch, this is Peeta." He holds it to his ear, and even at this distance, I can make out Haymitch's stunned, spluttering reaction. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know," Peeta says, very quickly. "Listen, Katniss is in trouble, she's in my cell- I mean, room. Send help."

With that he tosses the earpiece back to me. I fail to catch it and it hits me in the nose. "You didn't have to do that, you know," I say, but I sound much too weak to reinforce what I'm saying.

"Yes, I did," Peeta counters, sitting down in my usual spot. It's odd, how our positions have become reversed. He smoothes the hair out of my face with tense, controlled movements. He's still scared of me. "I don't know if I used to love you, Girl on Fire. But I definitely care about you."

That's the last thing I hear before I finally let myself fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**What do you guys think? Good, not good? Anything you'd specifically like to see happen?**

**Reviews are always appreciated. :)**

* * *

"What the heck were you thinking?"

I wrestle my eyes open. I'm on a cold, hard hospital bed staring up at a immaculately white ceiling. Haymitch is standing over me with a scowl on his face so intense that I wonder if it'll ever come off.

"Hi to you too," I croak. God, I sound awful. What-? _Oh, yeah,_ I think slowly. _I was in the process of starving myself to death._

Haymitch looks like he wants to throw something at me. "Are- you- insane?" he spits out.

In response, I hold up my wrist, which is still encircled by the _mentally unstable_ bracelet. It occurs to me that I could take it off any time I like, because my wrist has grown skinny enough to just slip it off.

"You know, usually people stay _away_ from the person who wants to kill them," he continues. "But not you! Oh, no, you bribe the guard and sneak in every night for two weeks and sit there, within arm's reach, just begging him to kill you." He shakes his head, and I notice that his eyes are surprisingly clear. He's not drunk. "What's the matter with you?"

"Funny," I say. "You're the second person to ask me that today."

"Actually, it's been about a day and a half since we found you passed out in Peeta's room."

I shrug and my head protests at the movement. "Ow."

"_Ow_ is right." Haymitch pokes me hard in the arm, near where several tubes have been attached. "Do you know how long it took to rehydrate you?"

Before I can answer, the door opens again and a nurse steps in. She silently disconnects the tubes from my arm, checks my pupils and pulse, and leaves. Before the door closes behind her, she says, "You're free to go, Soldier Everdeen. Just mind you _stay where you're supposed to_."

Haymitch throws his hands in the air. "I can't believe it. They're letting you go after that?"

But I'm already out the door. The moment I've reached my room I change into fresh clothes, re-braid my hair and race to the kitchen. Greasy Sae takes one look at me and slips me a tray, and by the time I've finished it, I feel better. Not good, but better.

Which is why it's easy for me to slip noiselessly into the room behind the one-way glass and stand in a corner just out of the guard's range of vision. I'm not sneaking back into Peeta's room. Yet.

He's sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand pressed against his temple and the other holding a paintbrush that's steadily dripping yellow onto the toe of his shoe. He doesn't seem to notice. I want to step forward and press my palms to the glass, but then the guard would notice me. I realize that now that I've been caught, I won't be able to come here anymore. Not at night, anyway. I feel like something precious has been taken away from me.

When I feel my eyelids start to itch from held-back tears, I leave. I've done enough crying recently. I find one of my hiding places and curl up, but I've been asleep for so long that I can't just take a nap. Instead I find myself thinking. About my home, bombed to ashes. About Rue, speared through the belly. About Peeta, warped into something other than himself. This is bad. My head is hurting again and I think I might be sick. Thinking is dangerous. I'm starting to have more sympathy for the morphling addicts from our last Games.

"I thought I'd find you here."

I uncurl from my fatal position and sigh. "Gale," I say tiredly. "I'm not in the mood. Haymitch has already told me how stupid and reckless I was being."

"Well, I'm going to tell you again. Because you need to hear it."

I jump up. "Oh, yeah? Good luck catching me!"

It's not going to be much of a race, I know. A short, weak, half-starved girl against someone as tall and strong as Gale? I've got no chance. But, maybe if I can outfox him and find some new hiding place he hasn't discovered yet, I'll get some peace and quiet. Besides, it feels good to run. Like I'm leaving behind all the bad memories.

Of course, after about two minutes, I'm not feeling so hot anymore. I dodge into a corner to catch my breath, pressing my forehead against the cool wall, and decide that, starting immediately, I'm going to get stronger. I hate being weak. I always have. I'll run every day, practice with the bow Beetee made me, lift weights, even. Then just see if they'll turn me down when I request to go on a mission. I just have to get out of here.

But, first, I have to keep running. If I don't, Gale will catch me and then I'll have to listen to yet another lecture. I give myself to the count of three, then spring away from the wall. And run smack into someone. I hit the ground hard and my head spins. At the same time, I hear sharp voices and the clink of metal. Metal?

Handcuffs. I can see them when someone offers me a hand. I shrink back. Only one person in Thirteen would be wearing handcuffs. After a few awkward seconds, I take it. He lifts me to my feet, then quickly lets go.

"Sorry," I mumble.

I realize that Peeta is flanked by two guards that look like they could crush steel beams with their bare hands. Ah. No wonder he's allowed to be out and about.

Before it can get too awful, just standing there, I start to walk away, but Peeta says, "You're coming to see me after dinner."

"Oh, I am, am I?" I mutter, trying and failing not to sound hostile.

"Yeah. You are. It's my dream, remember? You can't do anything about it except turn into a nightmare."

For a moment, I just blink at him. Is he delirious? Or is he making some sort of twisted metaphor?

"You're not just trying to lure me in to kill me, are you?" I ask wryly, only half joking.

Peeta shakes his head. "Not this time."

This sends shivers down my back.

"Six o'clock," he orders. "And don't be late. They got a new guard, and he's not going to let you in if you're not on time."

I roll my eyes and start climbing an access ladder to an air vent. Since when has Peeta been the one in charge? But I know I'll go. I wouldn't be able to _not_ go, even if I wanted to. Not if there's a chance I could get him back somehow.


	3. Chapter 3

I shuffle my feet and look around, feeling too big and too small at the same time. Peeta's done nothing but stare at me ever since I came in. The only thing he said was, "Hello." Then I sat down on the only chair in the room and we've been drowning in this tense silence ever since. I tried to start a conversation, just once, but it didn't work.

"So…" I start on Try Number Two. "Why did you want to see me again?"

"Well, first I wanted to look at you."

I roll my eyes. "No, really?"

I make a show of glancing at my watch. It's been fifteen minutes. When I look back up, I see something I didn't notice before. Lying open on one of Peeta's knees is some sort of book. He notices me staring at it and flips it closed.

"What's that?" I ask, even though I can tell I'm not supposed to.

"Sketchbook," he answers shortly.

I just nod. Silence. Tap, tap, tap goes my foot on the floor. Sigh. How long has it been? Tap. Tap. Tap, tap. That flickering light is annoying me. Tap.

Something unexpected happens then. I hear laughter. "You're really not good at this whole patience thing, are you?" Peeta chuckles.

"Yeah, well, that's your job," I snap.

He looks surprised. "What? Being patient?"

"Well, kind of. Dealing with people in general. Being the nice one."

His hair flops into his eyes as he tips his head to one side, and I have this crazy urge to reach out and smooth it back. But I can't. "So, what was your job?"

Now it's my turn to be surprised. "My job? Um…" I wrack my brains. What _was_ my job? "Mostly just trying not to say the wrong thing in front of the cameras." _Trying, and failing._

Yet another long stretch of quiet goes by before I raise a hand to my lips to cover a yawn.

"Want to take a nap on my bed again?" Peeta grins.

"Ha, ha," I say. "Very funny."

"No, really. We're being monitored this time, so it's safe." He gestures towards the pane of glass.

I hesitate. Should I accept? Refuse? Get up and leave? "Well, we're only being monitored if we haven't put them all to sleep," I joke. Peeta's eyes follow me as I slowly get up and move to the corner. We switch places and I curl up on the edge of the bed, tucking only my feet under the blankets. Peeta just settles into the chair I previously occupied, raising his eyes to the ceiling. At last I rest my head against a corner of the pillow, breathing in the soft, cinnamon-y scent of Peeta, and let myself drift off.

There's a hand on my shoulder "Katniss? Wake up."

I open my eyes almost immediately. I'm rewarded with a close-up glimpse of blue before Peeta steps back. "Yeah?"

"Time to go. They're showing me another video."

I stretch out my arms and then fold them over my chest, annoyed. "What, the video content is too much for me? Look, I know I'm the Mockingjay and they want to protect me and all that, but I've seen some pretty horrific things in my lifetime. I can handle some dumb video." The last sentence is directed at the one-way glass.

One look and I know I've gone too far. Peeta's hands are shaking. His eyes look cold. "Leave," he snarls.

I take one step back, startled.

Peeta takes a firm hold of the chair, like he's preparing to throw it. "Go!" The chair legs lift off the floor a few inches. That's all it takes to send me fleeing from the room.

My heart is pounding. I don't think- I just push my way through hallways, sprinting so fast I'm nearly falling over my own feet. Everything is a blur. Just one thought stands out in my head- if it can even be called a thought. _Peeta…_

* * *

She leaves so quickly that the door bangs into the wall before rebounding and slamming shut again. I realize that I'm gripping the chair with white knuckles and slowly lower it to the ground. It helps to have something to hold on to. _Horrific things._ Blood and unusually large wolves with dead tributes' eyes. Katniss the Mutt, yanking a red-dripping arrow from someone's limp form and refitting it to her bow, now trained on me. Nightlock. Bombs exploding, District Twelve going up in oily flames, smoke and feathers choking me.

The images start to fade away, and at last I force my ice-white fingers open and fall into the chair. I press the heels of my hands to my head, as if I'm trying to physically hold my shattered mind together. Once the headache fades from piercing to aching, I retrieve my sketchbook from where it fell onto the floor and flip open to the last marked page. It's what I was working on while Katniss slept. In fact, it's Katniss, curled up on the hospital bed, her hands clutching the blanket like it's a lifeline.

I stare at it, even though it just stirs up unwanted and confusing memories. Just like I stared at the real Katniss, when she was in here. I figure, the more memories I can stir up, the faster I can figure them out. I can't figure anything out if they're all buried in the back of my head, covered in mental scabs.

There's a knock on the door and I tense, thinking she's come back, but it's just a nurse wheeling a big, blocky television into the room. I sigh and give the drawing one more glance before snapping the book closed. Right before my eyes leave the page, something flashes through my head so quickly I barely catch it.

I close my eyes, trying to bring it back, and come up with a strange, recent memory: Katniss, sitting at the end of my bed, her face in her hands and her knees drawn up to her chest. It's not from last time. She looked healthier, less fragile. I can tell that, when this happened, I was fighting to stay awake, because I remember my head feeling slightly hazy. She said something, very quietly, but I only caught a few words. _"… too many nightmares…"_

"Mr. Mellark?"

I open my eyes. The nurse is standing there, remote in hand, as the TV starts up with a high-pitched whine.

"Ready," I confirm.

The film blinks on and I allow yet another nurse to direct me onto the bed and secure the restraints around my arms. Just in case I go mad and try to kill someone. You know. Another day in the life of Peeta Mellark.

The film they show is something about a big party, with tables full of food lining the walls and brightly-colored people milling around. Katniss and I appear a few times, dressed in painfully formal clothes, but I'm too distracted to really pay attention. That small memory, the one from about a week ago, tugs at my thoughts like a loadstone. _Too many nightmares._ What did she mean by that?

I surreptitiously open the sketchbook again, which is quite a feat considering my bound arms, and look at the picture of sleeping Katniss. On the opposite page is what I saw just before she left. Tall, chestnut hair darkened to midnight-black, eyes the same color. Wielding a fancy, silver knife with a large opal in the hilt. Lunging forward, lips pulled back into a snarl. I look from sleeping Katniss to Mutt Katniss, and, for the first time, both of them hold an equal amount of memories and feelings. I have literally zero idea which one is real. I wish there was a way to know- not only to know, but to be 100% sure.

That's when I have the idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**So, what do you think? Good, not good? Any suggestions are always welcome!**

* * *

"Hey, Brainless, zone in." Johanna slaps me in the back of the head on the way by, causing me to nearly drop my tray. I slide into a chair and stare at my plate without seeing it.

I haven't slept since my power-nap yesterday, and that doesn't really count. I'm so used to staying up all night that my brain just wouldn't shut off. Images of Peeta, lifting the chair and snarling, "Leave!" swirled in my mind until they blocked out everything else. It doesn't make any sense. I should be kept up by thoughts of Peeta strangling me, Peeta screaming that I'm a Mutt, Peeta being tortured. In comparison, this is nothing. But, for some reason, I can't get it out of my head. Leave. _Leave._

"What are you doing?" Finnick asks as I stand up, abandoning my tray of food.

"Leaving," I reply tiredly.

Finnick eyes my meal, as if wondering if I'd let him have it. "You haven't eaten anyting."

"I don't care."

Suddenly, something's pushing on my shoulders, forcing me to sit down again. My spoon is shoved into my hand and Peeta's voice says, "Just eat the freaking soup, Katniss."

I look at the spoon in surprise, and then up at Peeta, but he's already moved on to sit across the table next to Johanna. His guards stand a few feet back, never looking away from him, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

"About done starving yourself, then?" Johanna asks when she sees me holding a spoonful of broth to my lips. "That's weird. Don't I remember you saying something about, _'If I stop trying, maybe I'll just die'_?"

I shoot her a glare. I did say that, a while ago, on one of my worst days. That was when I first got the idea of starving myself. But I'm not starving myself _now_. Not on purpose, at least. I'm halfway through the bowl when I realize that Peeta is staring at me. He drops his gaze when I look up, but a few seconds later, he's back to fixing his eyes on my face. Then back down. Up, down, up, down.

"What are you doing?" I ask at last through a mouthful of bread.

Peeta holds up one pointer finger, like he's saying, _Wait._ Then he lifts his hands and I see that same notebook from before. He studies whatever he's written, and then smiles in satisfaction and starts to close it. But before the pages can press together, he pauses and hesitantly says, "Would… would you like to see?"

I nod and lean forward, my elbows propped on the table and my spoon dangling from my fingers. He turns the notebook around and I see that, no, it's not writing. It's a drawing- two drawings, really. Two people, standing back-to-back, but not touching. Two versions of me. One holds a bowl at arm's length, her nose wrinkled and her cheekbones jutting out. The other is fingering an intricate, jewel-studded dagger that would make Clove see green with jealousy, if she was alive. That must be Mutt Katniss.

"It's like this all the time," Peeta says. "I see two of you at once. It's confusing."

"Must be," I whisper. He closes the notebook- sketchbook- and slides it under his tray. I try to imagine what it would be like. To look at Peeta and see him as he is, _and_ some dangerous, alternate-universe version of him. The idea itself makes me shudder. I instantly feel so crushed, so confused by the imaginary scenario, that I can't bear to think how much worse it must be in real life. _Oh, Peeta… Is this what you've been going through all this time? _There's a clatter as the spoon slips from my fingers and lands on the metal table. _I'm so sorry. Oh, God, Peeta, I'm sorry._

People are talking to me, snapping their fingers in front of my face. I realize that I've jammed my fists against my temples, and I'm biting my lip hard enough to taste blood. I probably look like I'm teetering on the edge of sanity. What they don't know is that I fell a long time ago.

* * *

I watch and wait for Katniss' reaction. At first she just looks thoughtful. Then, slowly, a distant look comes into her eyes.. Her spoon falls noisily to the table, but she doesn't seem to notice. All at once, she screws her eyes shut and raises her hands to the sides of her head. She looks remarkably like Annie does when… _Oh, no._

Gale waves a hand in front of her face, frowning slightly, but Katniss just makes an odd, choking sound and digs her fingernails into her scalp. _What have I done?_ Finnick tries to get her attention by calling her name and Johanna taps- or, rather, thumps- her on the back. Katniss doesn't budge.

"What did you do?" Gale demands, turning on me. "She was talking to you just before this happened! What did you do?"

"I just showed her a drawing," I say, on the verge of panicking myself. Then, upon seeing Johanna reaching stealthily for Katniss's forgotten tray, I snap, "Leave it."

Katniss shudders at the word _leave_. I realize it's the last thing I said to her when she came to visit me. I wish I could say sorry for that. I wish she would take her hands away from her head and open her eyes and _look_ at me.

Annie appears behind Katniss and gently tugs her hands down, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "Think of honey," she suggests. "It helps."

I see no reason why thinking of honey would help at all, but Katniss seems to get it. Slowly, her face relaxes from the expression it had been contorted into. She doesn't open her eyes, though. It bothers me. I want to see her eyes.

A memory surges to the surface of my mind. _Katniss is lying beside me, in a cave, a red-stained bandage wrapped around her head. The stuff is dried in her hair and the smell of it fills the cave. I'm so worried. So horribly, horribly afraid that she might not make it. My Katniss, who risked her life to save me. Wake up. Please wake up._ In the memory, I'm not afraid of Katniss. I am scared, but not of her. Rather, I'm scared of losing her. Another, bloodier memory pushes through and the two start to fight it out. I have to grip the table to keep myself from copying Katniss's position. Which is still unchanged.

One of the guards that constantly follows me materializes at my shoulder and scoops up Katniss as easily as if she was a doll. Then again, she's so skinny, I could probably go on a five-mile run carrying her and not even break a sweat.

"Where are you taking her?" I manage.

"Hospital."

"I'm coming."

Gale gets up and says, "No, you're not. You've done enough."

I wince. I know it's true. Even right now, I'm debating whether Katniss really tried to slit my wrists with a butter knife on the Victory Tour. I'm in no state to be accompanying her to the hospital. I start to turn away, needing to look at anything else than the tears slipping from beneath her eyelids, when something latches onto my sleeve. My first reaction is to jerk away, but whatever it is just holds on tighter.

It's Katniss. She's back to hiding her eyes behind her fingers and curling up into a ball, but clutched in one fist is the fabric of my sleeve. She says something so thick with tears I can hardly understand her. I think what she says is, "I'm so sorry."

Just one more thing to puzzle over as we walk towards the hospital. That is, until all thought is startled from my mind by a shrill, ear-piercing wail. The bomb sirens.


	5. Chapter 5

**This one's a little bit fluffy. Well, more so. XD**

**As usual, let me know what you think.**

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I gasp and jerk away from the metal-crushing guard as nails drive themselves into my eardrums. The heels of my hands and my shins crash into the floor, sending a bolt of sharp pain through me. This jars me out of my trance. In an instant, I'm on my feet, screaming, "Prim!"

But more than one pair of hands is pushing me. "No time! Go, go! Get to the bunker!" I'm not sure who exactly is yelling at me. It might be the guard, Finnick, Johanna, Peeta and Gale all at once. Yes. That's it.

I'm too weak and too shaken to protest much. Apparently I'm too slow, too, because after a few minutes I'm picked up and jostled around as the group sprints away. I realize that no one else is running. Just us. Have to protect their precious Mockingjay, now, don't they? Don't want her to be swept away in the crowd. Fragile, young thing. She would probably be crushed. Well, too late. I'm already crushed. Just not on the outside.

I only resurface from my freezing-cold thoughts when I'm gently set down on the hard, chilled ground. That's when I see who was carrying me. Not one of the guards, or even Finnick, but-

"Peeta."

"You." He points an accusing finger at me. "Don't ever do that again."

I'm shocked by his harsh tone. "Do what?"

"Clock out. Retreat into your own little world. Pull an Annie. Look, you can't become your mother. Whatever's going on in your head, there are people out here who need y- who can help you."

I wince. Then I register what he just said. "Wait. There are people out here who need me? Who… are you talking about?" I have a pretty good idea who, but I don't want to put him on the spot. I'm not exactly in the mood to be attacked, if I trigger something.

Peeta shoves his hands in his pockets and starts to walk away. "No one."

"Hey. You're not leaving. If you leave, I'll clock out again." I cross my arms stubbornly.

Peeta pauses and looks back at me.

I can feel the tears welling up, although I don't know where they came from. "After all," I whisper. "This is my nightmare. You're the only one who can do anything about it." A variation on what Peeta said on that night when he woke up. A little sappy, a little cliché, but oh, so true.

His eyes narrow. He looks around. His expression morphs into confusion. "Where are the cameras?"

"There aren't any."

"Then… you're not… You're not acting?"

My eyes close and the tears escape, rolling down my face. "No. I'm not."

"You're lying." Peeta's voice is laced with ice, and when I open my eyes, I'm startled to find his own blue ones just a few inches from mine. He grabs my head before I can pull away, and for one insane second, I think he's going to kiss me. But he just stares into my eyes, like he's looking for something. "You were acting in the cave. Real or not real?"

"Huh?"

"Answer the question," he growls, and I flinch.

"I… I… don't know! Sometimes I was, but not all the time. I mean, it was… we were… I don't know!"

"Fine. You were acting on the beach. Real or not real?"

"Not real," I respond, oddly proud to be able to answer the question. Then I look down, fixing my gaze on my shoes. How much does Peeta remember?

My chin is yanked up until I'm forced to look at Peeta again. When I try to wriggle away, I'm rewarded with an almost painfully hard grip on my arms. "You were acting during the Victory Tour. Real or not real?"

I sigh in exasperation. "Why do you want to know, Peeta?"

"Real or not real?" he nearly yells.

"Real!" I shoot back. "At least, in front of the cameras, real."

"You were acting on the train. Real or-"

"Not real."

"You were acting in the propos. Real or not real?"

I find myself distracted by Peeta's eyes. They're the color of the sky on an early summer evening. Darker streaks spread outwards from the pupils, and there's a ring of lighter blue around each iris. Normally, I would be embarrassed to be staring at his eyes, but it's not like I have a choice. My thumb slips under the _mentally unstable _bracelet and twists it around until it cuts into my skin. The pain is good. It snaps me back into focus.

"Quit it." My hands are pulled apart and the bracelet goes slack again. "Answer the question."

"Uh… What was it again?"

Peeta sighs. "Never mind." And, just like that, he's gone. I'm left rubbing my arms, which feel cold without his hands, and wondering what the heck just happened. I feel like I've just been interrogated.

Slowly, my surroundings register in my brain. A large, oddly-shaped cavern that looks both natural and manmade at the same time. I'm sitting on the floor in an area marked by white paint on the ground. People stream all throughout the cave, a lot of them casting me curious glances. Gawking at the small, crumpled, mentally unstable girl once known as the Mockingjay. But, what do I care? I don't. I don't. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

I jump about six feet into the air when a bag lands next to me with a loud _thump_. A second later, Peeta strides up with another, identical bag in his hands and says, "Calm down. It's just a bag. It's not going to kill you."

Is it just me, or do I hear a hint of laughter in his voice? I reach out and snatch up the bag, and then he really laughs. I don't even bother to shoot him a glare. Inside the bag are some changes of clothes, a toothbrush, an extremely small amount of toothpaste, a plastic comb, and that's about it. "Wow," I drawl. "A comb. Living in the lap of luxury, that's us."

Peeta chuckles yet again. Then he looks at me with his head tipped to the side. "You know, I don't think I've laughed this much since…" He looks away suddenly. "Since before."

I know what he means. "It must be because of my razor-sharp wit."

He peers at me from under half-closed eyelids. "I thought that was my job."

I grin. "Now you're catching on."

"Catching on what?" Two blonde braids dangle in my face as Prim leans over me, draping her arms around my neck. My mother drifts into view as well, wiping her hands on her nurse's uniform.

I see a mischievous spark come into Peeta's eye. "Catching on fire." As he says this, he looks right at me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, guys! I'm sorry, I know it's been a while! **

**For anyone who follows this story and one of my other stories, Growing Together, I promise I'll try to update Growing Together sometime this weekend. I know it's been forever since I've updated that one. It just got put on the back burner since I got interested in See You.**

**As usual, if you have any requests or suggestions (or comments, or anything), put it in a review. Thanks!**

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Katniss gives me a baffled look. And I guess I deserve it, after my cryptic comment. Prim giggles madly and hides her mouth behind her hands. Mrs. Everdeen puts a hand on her shoulder to quiet her.

"Better stay away from Haymitch, then," Katniss says, her face once again wiped of emotion.

I frown, frustrated. Just when I thought she was coming out of her shell…

She continues," With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not…" Her sentence fades away and she looks to the ground.

"Advisable to have him around an open flame?" I finish, somehow knowing how her sentence was going to end.

"Yeah." She hands over the supplies for Prim and her mother before saying bluntly, "You remember."

"Why are you constantly surprised when I remember things? I know my memory hasn't been especially reliable of late, but you have to give me _some_ credit."

Her brow wrinkles into a halfhearted frown and she opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Gale steps up behind her. I feel my lips automatically press together in my own half-frown. Although he's never done anything to earn it, as far as I know, I don't especially like Gale Hawthorne.

"Katniss," he says. "I need to talk to you."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

Katniss is glancing around like she's looking for a way to escape, but after a few seconds, she sighs and gives in. Gale leads her off to another section of the cavern. Prim gives me a reassuring smile and a nod before she leaves, following her mother towards the clump of people from the hospital.

I turn my attention back to Gale and Katniss. He's talking a mile a minute, gesturing with his hands, but I can't tell what he's saying. He looks angry. Katniss is guarded, with her arms crossed and her chin jutting out. She looks so stubborn that I almost laugh at Gale. Whatever he wants, he's not getting it any time soon. Not from her, at least.

I'm startled out of my thoughts by an elbow jab to the ribs. "Hey, you," Haymitch slurs. "Stop gawking."

"Hi, Haymitch." I don't even bother to turn towards him. I can tell which direction he's in by the smell. "I see you're not quite drunk enough to still be stumbling around upstairs."

There's a sloshing sound. Then, "Getting there."

I sigh. "Are you ever _not _drunk?"

"I wasn't when I was waiting for Sweetheart there to wake up from her suicide adventure."

Somehow, I'm skeptical of this. I just hum and pick up my bag. "Where am I supposed to go, anyway? Do I get my own space or am I getting thrown in with the other hospitalized people?" I ask.

Haymitch shrugs and jerks a thumb vaguely behind him. "Why don't you ask her?"

A few yards away, Mrs. Everdeen approaches us, her eyebrows quirked up in a question. "Ask me what?"

"Where am I supposed to go?" I ask again.

She points. "Look for the letter M on the wall."

"Thanks."

The contents of my bag shift as I heft it onto my shoulder and start making my way over to the big, white, roughly painted **M**. On my way by, my gaze is dragged over, once again, to Gale and Katniss. This time, it's Katniss who looks angry. The stubborn, boiling, say-one-more-word-and-I'll-punch-you-in-the-face kind of angry. Gale looks like he's trying to apologize for something. He reaches out and cups her face in one of his hands.

I find myself digging my fingernails into my palm. Half of me wants him to slide his hand down until it's crushing her windpipe. The other half wants to wrench his arm away from her. I'm the one who should be trying to comfort her, not him!

Katniss, to my relief, steps back, giving Gale a small push on the shoulder. She shakes her head and opens her mouth to say something, but then changes her mind and marches away. As she nears the letter **E**, where Prim is waiting for her, her hands swing at her sides and she jabs the floor with every step.

I can't help but to sidle up to Gale and mutter, "What was that about?"

Gale glares at me and mumbles something about "some advice" before disappearing into the crowd. By the time I reach the letter **M**, I'm wishing for my sketchbook. That's when I remember shoving it into Katniss's hands as I picked her up, running to the bunker with my guards and Finnick close behind. Was she still holding it when she talked to Gale? No… I don't think so. So, where did it go?


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey! Uh... hah... haha... Yeah. I'm so sorry it took so long to update! To make it up to you, I've added an extra special chapter from a point of view I haven't done before. Enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Katniss flings herself down on the rock-hard cot, scowling. I look around, searching for the cause of her distress, and it's not long before I spot Gale stalking off in the opposite direction. Peeta has disappeared into the crowd. I reach out and gently rub Katniss on the back. "How'd it go?" I ask, even though I know perfectly well how it went.

Katniss just grunts and shifts her arm so it covers her eyes. After a few seconds, she sighs and says, "Gale tried to lecture me about how dangerous Peeta is."

"And you didn't want to be lectured," I finished for her, nodding sympathetically.

Katniss suddenly rolls over so that she can look me in the eyes, startling me and nearly falling off the cot. "He's not."

"Who's not what?"

"Peeta. He's not dangerous, Prim. Just… lost."

I turn away, so that Katniss doesn't see the smile spread across my face. I silently thank whatever higher powers there are for doing their job. I had heard that Katniss went to visit Peeta, and that it gave him a huge push in the direction of recovery. But I didn't know if it was really true. Judging by recent events, I'd say it's very true. And I'm so happy they're finally finding each other again. All I say aloud, though, is, "I know."

"Do you think he'll ever find his way back?"

I glance back at her. It's rare for Katniss to say this kind of thing. Then again, she has been… different lately. "Yes," I reassure her. Then, more quietly, "He always has."

My sister's piercing gray eyes flash towards me, trying to figure out what I mean. They soften after a few seconds and she turns back around so that she's propped up against the wall, the heel of one shoe bouncing on the toe of the other. "Yeah."

I busy myself with tucking Buttercup into a small, cave-like structure I made out of the bags and a blanket. He nuzzles against my hand and I stroke his head. I love taking care of this cat. I always have. I don't know what I would have done if Katniss hadn't brought him to 13 for me.

My mind wanders as I pet Buttercup, so I'm surprised when I look up to find Peeta standing a few feet away, next to Katniss. Neither of them seems to have noticed that I saw them. They're talking in whispers, Katniss with the beginnings of a scowl and Peeta looking stubborn. Huh. I've never seen Peeta look stubborn before. Katniss starts to say something, but Peeta shakes his head and covers her mouth with his fingers. Katniss looks so surprised that I doubt she knows what Peeta says next. But I hear. He says, "Stay safe. Promise me."

He drops his hand and Katniss just looks at him for a second before she gently says, "I promise. But you have to stay safe, too."

"I will." Peeta hesitates, and then his hand zips out to brush a lock of Katniss's hair back from her face. Then he's gone and Katniss is just standing there, looking shell-shocked.

"Katniss?" I finally venture.

She snaps out of her reverie and walks over to me, smoothing my hair back just as Peeta just did to her. "Yeah, little duck?" There's a smile in her voice. I wonder why.

"What did Peeta want?"

She rolls her eyes, but I sense it's more in amusement than annoyance. "He just wanted to make sure I'd make it through the night without somehow hurting myself. I'm not that clumsy, am I?"

I laugh with her. "Okay. But, is that all?"

She frowns slightly, and I know there's more. But before she can tell me, there's a bone-cracking boom and the lights flicker. As a tribute to how practiced she is at keeping her face clear of emotion, Katniss doesn't even flinch. I jump a few inches, though. Another few bombs hit, spaced out by about fifteen minutes each, and Katniss retreats into her own little world. Her eyes glaze over and she props her chin on her hands. At first I'm worried, but then I remember that when she's zoning out in the dangerous way, her eyes close.

My mom appears and nervously packs and unpacks the bags over and over again. It's pretty quiet, considering how many people are in this cavern. At last, about an hour goes by without any jolts. President Coin comes on the intercom, letting the population of 13 know that we're free to move about the cavern, but that we won't be leaving for another day or more, just in case.

It takes a total of fifteen seconds after that for Haymitch to come running to our square, waving his arms frantically. He's so out of breath that all he can do once he gets there is huff, "Peeta… gone… don't know where… just… disappeared after the… bombs."

Before I know it, Katniss has bounded from her seat on the bed and is sprinting across the cavern like her life depends on it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey, guys! I've got a long-ish chapter for you today. Let me know what you think, 'cause I'm not sure about this one. Good, not good? **

**One more question: are there just about the right amount of K/P moments in there for you guys, or should there be more? Less?**

**As always, thank you for reading, and please review if you have time. :)**

* * *

I knew something like this would happen. I knew it. Things were just going too smoothly. I'm running so fast that I start to tip forward, nearly falling over my own feet, but by this time I'm close enough to the doors that I can just reach out and catch myself on the wall. My palms are scraped up on the rough stone.

"HaveyouseenPeeta?" I ask the guards all in one gasp.

"Huh?" They're fingering their radios like they're wondering if they should call someone. Crazy little mockingjay is asking questions. Better get the authorities. Or at least some drugs to knock her out. Well, not this time. I refuse to go down before I find Peeta.

"Have you seen Peeta?" I ask again, more slowly.

They look at each other. Then they look at me. They shrug. I growl in frustration and swing around, scanning the cavern. Then I turn again and spit, "So he hasn't left the bomb shelter?"

"No one's left. The doors haven't been open since we all got here."

I spin to face the giant room again, slightly dizzy from changing directions so many times, and start forward uncertainly. People are really staring now, even pointing, but I ignore them. A few concerned-looking, white-clad hospital staff step towards me hesitantly, but don't do anything else.

Haymitch appears next to me, still winded almost beyond the ability to speak. "Where…?" he puffs.

"I don't know," I answer tensely. Where would Peeta go? He disappeared sometime during when the bombs were dropping… He's somewhere in the cavern, and I know he's not in the **E** section… _Well,_ I think to myself, _that rules out a lot._ At last I decide to check the makeshift hospital area. Peeta might have gone there for help, or to visit a friend, or… something. It's a place to start, anyway.

"Do you know where Peeta is?" I ask as soon as I stride into the midst of the nurses. I keep my arms firmly folded on my chest, to guard against needles. I've learned my lesson- never leave yourself exposed to knock-out drugs when everyone thinks you're crazy.

I'm greeted by baffled stares and slow blinks. Some, like the guards by the door, shrug. Finally, one of them, an older woman with a tight, gray bun on top of her head, steps forward and says, "No, we haven't seen Mr. Mellark since just before lunch. Mrs. Everdeen said he would be staying in the **M** section, though, if that helps."

I'm off again before another word is spoken, barely giving the woman time to finish her sentence. At the last minute, I remember my manners and twist my head to yell a "Thank you!" over my shoulder. I giggle as I imagine Effie, with her ridiculous accent, scolding me.

"Catnip, hold up!" Gale, followed by Haymitch, tugs on my sleeve and I pause. "Where's the fire?"

"I'm looking for Peeta. He's gone."

A shadow crosses over Gale's face, but it vanishes quickly. "Where?"

"Well, I don't know, that's why I'm looking for him."

Gale puts a hand on my arm, gently. "Look, Katniss, why don't you let us handle this?"

"No!" I say stubbornly, twisting my arm away. "Why?"

"Well, I'm not saying…. It's not that… You're just acting a little… odd," he finishes distractedly, looking anywhere but me.

My arms fall to my sides and hang there limply. It takes me a few tries to get the words out, but when I do, they sound flat- almost bored. "You think I'm insane."

"I don't think that," Gale hurries to amend himself. "I'm just saying, people are muttering, and I just think it would be a good idea to go back to your section and relax with Prim. We'll get everything under control, okay?" He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I flick his hand away.

I'm too angry and impatient to come up with a real answer. All I can think to say is, "Fine." I start to walk again, but I'm still heading for the **M** section. "Fine!" I yell again. "Let them think that! Let the whole district know- the Mockingjay is crazy! I have officially gone insane, okay?" I say the last sentence loudly and clearly, addressing the small audience of people who have turned toward us with curious expressions.

Surprisingly, on my way to **M**, I get a few smiles from the sidelines. Actual, genuine smiles. A small girl waves and grins at me. I fix my eyes on my shoes, my cheeks heating up in a delayed-reaction blush to my sudden announcement. _I don't care_, I tell myself. _I don't. I don't. I don't._

At the **M** section, I'm quickly turned away by multiple shaking heads. "We haven't seen him."

"He's not here."

"Keep looking."

"Good luck!"

I nod and walk away. But I'm surprised when I look back to see not only Gale and Haymitch, but a small party of about a dozen following me. The elderly nurse, the grinning little girl, someone I think I recognize from working in the kitchens, and even about six complete strangers. My eyes flick between them, slightly unnerved, until one of them shouts out, "Where next, Mockingjay?"

"Uh… Um, we're just going to- to make a quick sweep around the cavern, checking the different sections, and… if someone could go check the bathrooms real quick?"

Two boys scurry off toward the restrooms almost immediately. I can't believe it. They're listening to me. After I announced that I was insane. They're _following_ me.

We half-walk, half-jog around the perimeter wall, quickly checking each section. **N, O, P, Q, R **and** S** are all Peeta-less. By that time, the two boys come back and report that he's not in the restroom. "But," one of them says quietly, "We didn't check the storage rooms yet."

"Storage rooms?"

He points. "There. It's where they keep the bags when they're not being used. We'll go look now."

"No," I say quickly. "I'll go look. The rest of you can keep sweeping the room. I'll be right back."

I'm not exactly sure why I want to go off by myself. Maybe because I want to escape the stares for a few minutes, or have a couple of moments alone to just release this sound that's been building up in the back of my throat. I slip into the surprisingly thin hallway that the boy pointed to, and instantly I breathe a sigh. If I was trying to escape the bombs, this is where I might go. It's just small enough to hide in, not tight enough to feel like you're suffocating. It's a little cooler than the rest of the cavern. And the single light bulb that I can just barely see by the residual light coming from behind me has gone out.

After about ten steps, the air opens up a little, like I'm in a larger space. This must be the storage room. Or, one of them. It's pitch black in front of me, and only a vague gray rectangle marks the doorway at my back. The hair rises up on the back of my neck. If Peeta is having an episode, this would be a very easy place to ambush me.

"Peeta?" I call softly into the darkness. I'm reminded of searching for him in the first Games, by the stream. "Peeta, are you here?"

Ten agonizing seconds go by, during which all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears and the very faint murmur of voices from the cavern. I've just decided to just give up and go back to my little group of followers when something clamps down on my wrist. I start to scream, but a hand is pressed over my lips. I'm jerked forward, my toes sliding on the floor. And then I'm folded into a warm embrace, and it's so unexpected, so utterly different from what I thought was going to happen that I let out a shaky laugh and collapse against the pair of arms holding me.

"Sorry," a voice mutters. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Peeta." I rest my forehead against his shoulder as I try to catch my breath. "Just give me a heart attack, why don't you?"

"Sorry," he says again, pulling back. I'm cold without him. I open my mouth to ask him what he's doing here, but stop when I feel his hands slide up to my throat. My eyes grow even wider in the darkness and I feel my whole body start shaking, but I hold still. Perfectly still. "What have I done?" Peeta murmurs, and he sounds so sad that I want to reach out and hug him again. Except I'm still petrified. Slowly, his hands start to move against my neck, making little circles on my skin like he used to do on my back when I had a nightmare. I let go of a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Are you afraid of me?" I ask quietly.

Peeta chuckles. "That's my line."

It doesn't escape me that he didn't answer my question. But before I can ask again, we're blinded by multiple glaring LED lights, shining full-force right in our eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Yay, update!**

**So, this chapter was fun to write (lots of fluff XD ), but I don't really know what you guys like to read. Should I be writing more active scenes and less talking? More fluff, less fluff? More from Peeta, more from Katniss? I write to make my audience happy, so don't be afraid to tell me what you enjoy reading. :)**

**And now, on with the show!**

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Nearly blinded by the sudden light, I fling up an arm to shield my eyes. At the same time, I hear Katniss give a small gasp. The next thing I see is one of the flashlights go flying as Katniss punches the person who was holding it. "Ow!" yells a familiar voice. The flashlight lands on the floor and illuminates the startled, bruised face of Plutarch.

"Oh, sorry," Katniss says, not sounding remotely sorry. "That's what happens when you sneak up on me."

I look at the floor to hide a smile.

"What were you doing in here?" someone else asks slowly, lowering their flashlight slightly. Now that the light isn't right in my eyes, I see that Plutarch has a crew of about five people with him, some carrying clipboards, some fussing with their fake eyelashes that look ridiculous with their gray Thirteen uniforms, and one… I narrow my eyes. One is carrying a camera.

Katniss seems to realize this at the same time I do, because her tone is pure ice when she says, "We were discussing the bombing. Now, get out."

Plutarch's eyes are darting back and forth between us. I can almost see the puzzle pieces sliding together behind his eyes. "Actually, we really need-"

"No," Katniss interrupts.

Plutarch keeps going like he didn't even hear her. "- to film something- anything, really. It doesn't have to be a full propo, but just something to put on air."

"No," Katniss says again, her eyes growing more steely by the second.

"Showing the Mockingjay is still fighting, keeping busy even though we're on lockdown," Plutarch continues. "And if we could get some shots of you two together, maybe? Talking or-"

"NO!" Katniss and I both say at once.

The camera-holder steps forward tentatively. "We don't need much. Just a couple questions, or even just a few minutes of you two going about your business in the bunker. We could… um…" He trails off and shuffles back. When I look at Katniss to see why, I see that one of her hands is drifting above her shoulder, like she's groping for a nonexistent quiver of arrows.

I force down the flurry of shiny images that crowd into my mind and force out, "Look, you won't be able to air anything anyway. Not until we're out of the bunker." I wince. My head is pounding.

"But-"

The shiny memories are really getting to me, and it's all I can do not to start looking around for a knife, a club, a brick, anything. I give Plutarch a death glare, hoping it's at least half as effective as Katniss's, and snap, "We said no, okay? Do we need to get a restraining order, or should I just destroy your camera and be done with it?"

The small group clears out in record time. Thank God, because I'm teetering on the edge of a flashback. I abruptly turn away from Katniss and take a hold of one of the shelves on the wall with enough force to turn my knuckles white. The room behind me is completely silent, so I assume Katniss left with the rest. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. Blood. Puddles of the stuff- coating my leg in the first Games, seeping into the carpet, maybe in the Victors' Village house, running in ribbons downhill from someone's still form. I stay that way, holding onto the shelf, until my feet get pins and needles and the gruesome images very slowly fizzle out of my mind.

At last I let my arms flop to my sides. I sit, or rather crumple, on the floor and press my temple to the cool stone wall. After staring into the glare of the flashlights for five minutes, the crushing darkness seems even thicker, if possible. There isn't a single sound or breath of air, but suddenly someone is sitting beside me, a hand gently laid on my elbow. I jump violently and the hand is jerked back.

"I guess we're even now," Katniss's voice says quietly.

"What?" I ask, still a little rattled from the flashback.

"You startled me, I startled you."

"Oh." I slide my hand over until it bumps into hers, just to keep track of where she is. "You're still here. Why are you still here?"

"Why would I leave?"

My answer comes out more sharp than I intended. "Because it's dangerous. You should have left."

I'm completely blind in this storage room, but I swear I see Katniss's eyes widen in a hurt expression. A heartbeat of silence. Then, "Fine. I'll leave."

Before I even realize I'm doing it, my fingers have wrapped around Katniss's arm, pulling her back. "No. Wait. That's not what I meant."

I hear a sigh, and then the rustle of fabric as Katniss settles back on the ground. She shivers and I have the sudden, crazy urge to curl an arm around her shoulders and pull her to me. After a moment's hesitation, I do. _To keep her warm,_ I tell myself sternly. _That's all. Right?_ I wonder how I could possibly form a real or not real question out of _that_.

Katniss is the first to break the silence, which surprises me slightly. "Were you saying something? Before Plutarch decided to blind us, that is."

"Actually, I think _you_ were saying something. You asked if I was afraid of you." I realize a second too late that now she's going to make me answer the question. But how am I supposed to answer? _"Yes, but only sometimes. The rest of the time, I either want to kill you or protect you."_ Yeah, that would end well.

"And you said that was your line," she reminds me. "So… to answer your implied question… yes."

It takes me a minute to process what she said. Then I turn to look at her, even though it doesn't do any good. "Yes, meaning yes you're afraid of me?"

"Terrified," she answers matter-of-factly, and my stomach twists in guilt.

What have I done to this innocent, confusing, clever little creature? Whatever she is, mutt or human- _No, _I remind myself, _we've established she _is_ human_- she hasn't shown many signs of being the cold, heartless killer that haunts me. She's just a girl. So, I know _what_ she is. But, _who_ is she?

"Peeta?"

I realize I've been silent, thinking, for several minutes. "Sorry. Lost in thought, I guess."

"What were you thinking about?"

I grimace. It'll be hard to explain, but I may as well tell the truth. What else can I do? "Well… you. I was wondering who you are."

"Um… Katniss Everdeen…" she says uncertainly.

"I know that, but that's not really what I meant. I just have…" I sigh. "A lot of unanswered questions."

Her head lifts from my shoulder, even though I didn't even realize it was resting there until she moved. "Ask."

And so the interrogation begins.


	10. Chapter 10

**This chapter doesn't have much action in it, but I figured that made up for the last chapter I posted for my other story (Growing Together). **

**As usual, enjoy!**

* * *

I swallow a shuddering yawn and try to drag my eyes open. I must have dozed off again. My ears pop as I yawn, once again, and I manage to ask, "Sorry, what was that last question?"

Peeta chuckles. I realize I'm leaning against him, with my head resting on his shoulder, and quickly sit up. "You've been asleep for… I don't know, maybe half an hour," he says.

"Really?" I blink groggily, although it doesn't do any good. It's still completely black. In fact, I can't even see the gray rectangle where the door should be.

"They shut off the lights for the night a few minutes ago," Peeta says, answering my unspoken question.

"Oh. That's going to make it difficult to get back to our quarters…" I wonder why no one has come to find us. Maybe Plutarch and his gang told the search party to stop looking for us. Isn't it kind of… dangerous, to have us together in an isolated place, with no one there in case Peeta has an episode? But, wait. He _did_ have an episode. And he got over it. Without hurting anyone. That's improvement, right?

"So, what's your answer?"

"Huh?" I must have been zoned out enough to miss the question. Again.

"What did you do when the arena caught fire in the first Games?"

"Oh. Well, I just grabbed my stuff and ran. What else could I do?" My voice sounds thick and slightly scratchy, like I'm still in that fire.

I feel something run over the back of my head, and jump before I realize it's just Peeta smoothing down my hair. His hand retreats immediately. "Sorry," he apologizes, and below his light tone I can hear something stronger, like he's trying not to let me hear how… how… _something_ he is. Afraid? I don't think so. Surprised? No. Guilty? I tip my head to the side, contemplating it. Yes. He's guilty. But why?

At last I say, "For what?"

"Just…" He sighs. "Everything." Something hard clunks softly onto the top of my head, and when I reach up to find out what it is, I feel not only my own hair but Peeta's too. His forehead is pressed up against my temple. Suddenly, without thinking, I smile. It's small, and it vanishes quickly, but it's the first time I've really smiled in a long time.

"What do you mean?" I ask softly.

In response, there's the slightest sniffle. My eyes widen. Is Peeta- and not just Peeta, but _hijacked_ Peeta- crying?

"Hey," I breathe, reaching out slowly to set a hand on his shoulder. I find myself repeating the words I say to Prim when she's especially upset. "Hey… What's wrong?"

It takes a minute for him to respond, and while I wait I feel my eyes grow wider and wider with bafflement. I have never, ever seen Peeta cry before. Especially not this new, tougher, more cynical Peeta. I just can't wrap my mind around it. Surely I've fallen asleep again. Surely this is a dream. A nightmare.

"I'm- so sorry, Katniss. S-so sorry," he chokes. "I just-" He cuts off abruptly, and the next thing I know I'm trapped in a grip so tight I couldn't get away even if I wanted to. I freeze momentarily, but relax again when I realize he's just hugging me. Sure, this is a hug that could probably break my ribs, but not on purpose. Peeta buries his face in my hair, still crushing me against him. I can feel his breaths come in shaky gasps, and all I can do is clumsily maneuver myself so that I can gently wrap my arms around him and try to breathe normally as my lungs are slowly but surely compressed.

At last Peeta's grip loosens a bit and I take one long, deep breath. Before I can say anything, though, Peeta jumps in. "I'm so sorry. I may not have figured out everything yet- actually, I've barely figured out anything- but I hate that I hurt you. You're… please don't take this the wrong way, but you're hardly in any state to fight me. I think, if the Capitol was right and you really were against me, you'd be stronger. More prepared. And you would have tried to kill me sooner."

A flash of anger rises up in me, but I'm too tired to act on it. Instead I just shrug and try to lean back. But Peeta's arms are still locked around me, so I don't get very far. In the end I just lean forward again, exhausted, and let my head fall onto his shoulder as I whisper, "Glad things are getting better."

I don't remember falling asleep, or changing positions, but the next thing I know the rectangle of gray is back, marking the door, and I'm curled up with my back against the far wall. I'm covered by a large, rough cloth, and after running the tips of my fingers over it a few times, I deduce that it's some sort of tarpaulin. I stretch out, pointing my toes and reaching for something above my head. My arms brush something and I strain my eyes to see through the dark. Maybe I've finally gotten used to it, or maybe it's the faint light from the doorway, but I can just barely make out the shape of Peeta lying about two feet away.

He's not moving, but I can hear him breathing. He must be asleep. I turn over and scrunch the tarpaulin up around me, trying to preserve some of the heat. The sound must wake up Peeta, because he stirs, and then I'm being pulled across that two feet of space and his arm drapes itself over my side. I wait, half-frozen with surprise, but he doesn't do anything else. So, not awake. He must have done it in his sleep. Automatically. I smile for the second time and tuck a hand under my head, drifting back to sleep enveloped in warmth.


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm so sorry I haven't been updating very often! It's November (National Novel Writing Month, for those of you who don't know), so almost all of my writing time is dedicated to my NaNoWriMo novel. **

**Here's a quick little update, though! **

**Enjoy! Happy NaNoWriMo!**

* * *

We creep back up the dark hallway, our hands trailing over the walls, to the main cavern. Everyone is just waking up as we walk in, and Katniss gives me one last glance before slipping away to her section like a shadow. I remember how we woke up- lying side by side, just barely touching, with our hands overlapped. I remember how peaceful she looked, her loose braid swept over one shoulder.

The people at the section **M** all look away when I come near, but I can tell they were watching me. "Found 'im," one says, then guffaws loudly.

"You were looking for me?"

"Yup. The self-acclaimed insane Mockingjay put together a whole little search party for you when you vanished."

_Self-acclaimed insane Mockingjay?_ "Oh."

I grab my bag and go to brush my teeth. My mind won't stop whirring. Real? Not real? Who knows?

Coin's voice comes on and informs us all that we have six hours until we'll be released from the bunker, assuming no more bombs drop. I sigh. I don't know if I can stand _one _more hour in this place, much less six. It reminds me too much of the detention center in the Capitol. Bad. This is bad. _Don't think about that,_ I sternly instruct myself. _Think about something else._

The immediate answer is Katniss. I snort and shake my head at myself. _Something else than her, too._ Why does my mind always seem to end up on her, no matter what? Maybe if I actually do something, something productive, it'll get my mind off everything. I look around, then start to make my way towards a frazzled looking group of people carrying packs. "Can I help with anything?" I ask, and they're quick to load me down and point me towards the storage room again.

"Put the bags in that little room," someone says. "The light's out, though, so be careful."

Oh, really? I had no idea.

I spend a good part of four hours helping out around the cavern, and then there's only a little time left before we're released back upstairs. At that point, I'm tired beyond belief from all the lifting and carrying. I start to walk to my cell- I mean, hospital room- but am met by a haphazard orange plastic fence and the painted-on words, _"Closed for reconstruction."_

_Great,_ I thought, _what do I do now?_

I decide to go to Mrs. Everdeen and ask her. She's become somewhat like a mother to me, and always treats me with kindness, even though a tried to strangle her daughter… And just like that, my thoughts are back on Katniss.

It doesn't take long to find her. "Hey, Mrs. Everdeen?" I ask as she eases someone with a broken leg into a chair.

"Oh, hello, dear," she says, a bit distractedly, as she turns to me. "What can I help you with?

"I was just wondering who I should talk to, to find out where I should go. Now that the hospital is under reconstruction."

"Oh, go to the administration office. It's on the third floor. They're the ones reassigning everyone."

"Okay, thanks."

She gives me a genuine smile and pats me on the shoulder before moving on to another person. I somehow find the office and get in the long line already formed in front of the desk. While I wait, I trace the lines on the ceiling with my eyes and count in my head to keep myself from thinking of anything else. _One hundred and five. One hundred and six._

Someone in line is holding a young toddler, and they babble on happily in their indecipherable baby talk. I smile.

_Three hundred and seventy-two… Three hundred and seventy-three… Three hundred and seventy-four…_

I only reach the desk when I count to eight hundred and twenty, at which point my feet have pins and needles from standing for so long. A lost-looking lady with huge glasses and ink smudges on her fingertips says, "How can I help you, dear?"

"I'm Peeta Mellark. I used to be in the, ah, hospital, but that part's closed off, so I was just wondering where I should go now."

"Oh, yes. Of course." She ruffles through some papers, looking slightly annoyed. "Yes, here. Go to room… G238. You'll have to share, but there's space."

"G238. Thanks."

"Yes… Next!"

I find the room, with some difficulty, and pause with my hand on the doorknob. Something seems a bit odd. I wonder if I should knock, and if the person knows they have a roommate now, and what I should say. Maybe they aren't even there. At last I open the door and step in. Good. No one's here right now. I sit down on the bed without any sheets on it and look around. Something still seems odd. The room… It smells, very faintly, like home. Like District Twelve- pine trees and rain and wood smoke. Is there an open window? No… What is it?

I stand up and walk towards the other bed. It's stronger there. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if it would be odd, but then shrug and pick up the pillow lying on the mattress. It does smell like Twelve, along with something else. Soap, I think. And oranges. It's a weird combination, but somehow pleasant.

I jump when the door opens with a _snick_, dropping the pillow and taking several steps back from the bed. Then my mouth drops open. I'm not sure whether to be angry, happy, nervous or amused. I settle on shocked.

All I can think is, _This is either very good… Or very, very bad._

My roommate is Katniss Everdeen.


	12. Chapter 12

**Ahh! Sorry! I promise I'll update more often come December! I'm just super busy right now.**

**Thanks for understanding!**

* * *

I freeze. Peeta Mellark is in my room. Why is he in my room? What's going on?

"Peeta?" I say at last. "What… are… you doing here?"

He gapes at me for a moment, then composes himself. "Well… The hospital section was destroyed in the bombing, and the lady at Administration sent me to this room until it's rebuilt, so… I guess we're roommates now."

"Shouldn't you be roommates with, I don't know, a boy?" I say skeptically.

"I think they were just putting people wherever they fit. It looked pretty frantic down there."

"Oh." I cautiously walk past him and lean against a wall. "So… What happens now?"

"How about we try not to kill each other, and see how it goes from there?"

I'm not exactly sure if Peeta is joking or not, so I just nod. Thank goodness there are two beds. _Well,_ I reason to myself, _We did just sleep in the same room, in the bunker, and nothing bad happened, so… it might work._

As if reading my thoughts, he says, "I guess the bunker was a test run, huh?"

I give a tiny smile. "Yeah." I stick my arm into the wall and it presses my schedule onto my arm. First up is lunch. "Food," I announce, and head for the door.

Peeta looks at me curiously. "What's with your arm?"

"Oh, it's a schedule. It gets tattooed onto your arm in the morning, and washes off in the evening. I usually ignore mine."

"Would it work on me, too?"

"I don't know. It should, as long as it recognizes your DNA."

Peeta walks over and carefully slides his arm into the slot, wincing when it imprints him with the purple ink. Then he scans it. "Huh. Mine has a bunch of spots that just say _undetermined_. Guess they don't know what to do with me."

"I wish mine said that. Then I'd actually be allowed to go hide in broom closets for hours on end," I joke, realizing a split second later that I shouldn't have said that.

"Oh, so that's where you disappear off to."

I shrug and open the door. "Coming? If we're not there in time, we'll have to wait until dinner."

Peeta follows me out into the hallway, always keeping slightly behind me, as if he doesn't want to let me out of his sight. We push into the crowds of the cafeteria and get trays together. It reminds me strongly of our first time at the training center, when Haymitch instructed us to stick together all the time. We get almost identical bowls of slimy soup and dry, tasteless crackers and sit down at our usual table with Finnick and the rest of the crew.

We get several raised eyebrows when people see us approaching the table together. Johanna laughs. Gale frowns. Annie smiles quietly.

"Hey there, you two," Finnick says with a wink. "Have a good morning?"

I choose to ignore him, and purposely sit in a chair already flanked by two other people. Peeta sits across the table and gives me an inquisitive glance. I look down at my food.

The rest of the meal passes in relative silence, with only a few jokes thrown our way from Johanna or Finnick. I avoid most everyone's gaze.

* * *

Katniss won't look at me. Actually, she won't look at anyone. She's glaring at her soup as if it insulted her mother. Then again, that's her usual expression, so maybe I shouldn't think anything of it. Finnick nudges me and lifts his shoulders, glancing back and forth between us. I just shake my head, because I think it would cause more problems than it would solve to say, "We're roommates now. We made an agreement to try not to kill each other." Yeah, that would go over great.

When lunch is over, we dump our trays and I look at the schedule on my arm. It says _undetermined._ I glance over at Katniss, who is also staring at her arm. Hers says _room 7601._

"What in room 7601?" I ask, and she jumps.

"Who knows?" She walks away, but then calls over her shoulder, "For me, it means _go hide somewhere_."

I translate this into, _"So don't follow me."_ But, I have nowhere else to go, and plus, I'm curious. So I follow her anyway. She's hard to keep up with, constantly doubling back, climbing stair cases, going down elevators, squeezing through hallways so thin that they look like they were just a miscalculation in construction. I give up about the time she slips into the ventilation system. And by that point, I'm hopelessly lost.

I have to ask three random strangers for directions before I finally find my way back to room G238. It has been supplied with sheets and blankets for the extra bed, and a pile of gray clothes for me have been shoved into a drawer of the dresser.

Just as I'm finishing up making both of the beds, for lack of anything better to do, the vent cover on the far wall rattles, then falls. A second later, Katniss pops out of the vents, straightens up, and replaces the cover. Her clothes are dusty, and she coughs once, but otherwise she acts completely normal about it. As if she gets in and out of the room through the vents every day. Or… maybe she _does_.

I can't help it. I crack up.

Katniss spins around and exclaims, "Geez, Peeta, don't scare me like that! I forget you were here."

I can't stop laughing. "You just… You… the vents!" I get out, and sit down on my bed with a thump, clutching my sides.

"Oh, laugh it up," she mutters, but I see just a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Do you do that all the time?"

"I usually use the door."

"How often do you come through the vents?"

She tips her head to the side and a small cloud of dust flies off her shoulder as she blows on it. "Not very often. It's uncomfortable. But at least I don't run into anyone."

"That's because no one else can fit."

"I may just go back into the walls if you keep teasing me," she threatens.

I take it as a serious threat and make a heroic attempt to stop laughing. Then I realize that Katniss is staring at me with an odd look on her face. "What?"

She turns away and says softly, "It's good to see you laughing again."


	13. Chapter 13

**I am so, so, so, so, so, so sorry for not updating! I could give a bunch of excuses about NaNoWriMo and finals month, but instead, I'll just say: Here, have a nice, long chapter to make up for it!**

**Merry Christmas, all! I'll try to update my other stories soon, too!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

I turn away and say softly, "It's good to see you laughing again."

I busy myself with straightening already perfectly even sheets and dusting spotless surfaces as my cheeks burn. Why did I say that? _Why_ did I say that? It popped into my head and came straight out of my mouth. That isn't like me. At all. _I'm_ not like me. When exactly did I turn from strong, blank-faced Mockingjay to sniveling, silly, weak Katniss? I give my head a small shake, disgusted with myself.

My muscles are stretched so tightly- they have been for as long as I can remember- that I jump violently when Peeta suddenly replies, "I wish I could say the same for you."

I make a face. "What does that mean?"

He shakes his own head, an indecipherable expression on his face. "Nothing, Katniss. Nothing."

I sigh. I hate it when people hide things from me, but by now I'm almost used to it.

* * *

We spend the rest of the day in a thin, awkward silence, flitting in and out of the room as we go to appointments, real and imaginary, just to escape the quiet for a few minutes. Neither of us really knows what to say. The few times one of us says something, the conversation dies out within a few minutes, like a beached fish flopping around pathetically until it runs out of life.

I'm relieved when the purple ink tells us that it's, _21:00- Sleep_. After yet another awkward, bumbling, thirty-second conversation about who should get to use the restroom first, I dart in, hugging my sleeping clothes to my chest, and close the door. I almost wish there was a lock.

I lean against the door and let out a breath. This should be easy. We did this during the Victory Tour, didn't we? I remember how safe, how warm… how loved I felt. That's it. Peeta doesn't love me now. Or, if he does, it's not the love he used to have for me. That's the difference. But why should I care? I don't care, I _don't._

_Yes, I do. _

_Why?_ I question myself.

The answer scares me, leaves me trembling to my very bones, and I shove it away. There is no way that I love Peeta Mellark, the hijacked boy who tried to kill me.

I emerge from the bathroom some twenty minutes later, after a quick shower. My damp, freshly braided hair drips cold drops onto the back of my thin sleep shirt, and I shiver. Peeta doesn't take as long, but I'm already curled up in my bed, pressed against the wall with my face buried in my knees, when he comes out.

I don't expect him to say anything, but right before the light goes out, I feel a hand laid on my arm and Peeta murmurs, "Goodnight, Katniss."

Any response I might have had gets stuck somewhere deep in my throat, so I just grip the sheets in my fists and swallow thickly. There's the rustling of blankets being shifted around, and then silence. It takes me a long, long time to get to sleep.

* * *

_Rue is screaming, sobbing, calling my name, but it's like the ground has turned to molasses. I struggle to free myself, but my boots just sink further into the earth. Her voice, usually so delicate and wavering, pierces the air with an unearthly shriek that hurts my ears, and then ceases. The ground swallows me whole._

_I fall through a thin, coal-black tunnel, crashing to a halt on a plane of ice. The cold is so intense that it feels like daggers pricking into my marrow, and the cloying scent of rose petals clogs my nostrils._

_"Your wings have been clipped, Mockingjay," sneers an all too familiar voice. "You're flightless. Useless. You've served your purpose, uniting the districts. What more does Coin need you for? You're just the insane girl who takes up space and recourses." _

_Snow's voice laughs as tendrils of frozen water snake up from the ice and wrap around me, so tightly I can't breathe, and the laugh turns to one long, continuous howl, and when I twist my head, I see a Mutt._

_It has ashy blonde fur and sky blue eyes. I know every detail of those eyes- I studied them just a few days ago, after all. The Peeta Mutt snarls at me and steps closer, leaving steaming, bloody paw prints everywhere it steps on the sparkling white snow. _

_"I'll kill you," it says in a terrible, hoarse voice. "You took everything from me. What right do you have to even talk to me? You broke my heart into a thousand pieces when I offered it to you. You deserve to die."_

_Then it lunges, its fangs aimed for my exposed throat, and the ice is squeezing the breath out of me, and all I can think is, "He's right, he's right, he's-"_

* * *

"Katniss!"

I jackknife into a sitting position at the speed of lightning, and my forehead connects with something hard. Groaning and clamping my hands over my head, I drop back down onto the bed, disoriented and dizzy. It takes me a few minutes to open my eyes, blink into the semi-darkness, and orient myself. I'm lying in my bed, in my room in District Thirteen, with the blankets wrapped around me in the same way the ice tentacles of my nightmare were.

Peeta stands over me. His fingers are curled tightly around my wrists, probably to keep me from lashing out. The corners of his mouth are turned down, and a line has appeared between his eyes.

"Sorry," is the first word- or, shall I say, whimper- that comes out of my mouth.

"Katniss," he says again, sounding relieved, as he sits down on the edge of my bed. His fingertips skim unexpectedly along the side of my face.

"Sorry," I croak again.

"For what?"

"I just woke you up. And probably just about gave you a heart attack with my screaming."

"Actually you only screamed once, right before you woke up," he says gently. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Rue," I whisper. A hot tear slides down my cheek and I hope the darkness conceals it. "Snow. And-"

"And what?" Peeta rubs his hand in circles on my back. It's so familiar, the simple, comforting act, that memories of the train flood my mind.

I can't tell him, though, about the last part of my dream. Who knows how he'd take it. Instead, I look to the ceiling to keep the rest of my tears at bay.

"This has happened before," Peeta states. "Real or not real?

I can tell by his tone that it's not really a question, but I answer anyway. "Real."

"On the Victory Tour."

"Real."

There's a moment of silence, and the memories that continue to pour into my mind are heavy as lead. The ghost of the nearly undetectable hiss of air past the train walls screams in my ears.

Peeta speaks again, more surely. "And I would comfort you."

"Yes."

His other arm hesitantly snakes around my waist, holding me carefully, as if I might shatter. "It's okay, Kat. It'll be okay," he says into my hair.

And that's when I really start crying. It's not pretty. No quiet, delicate gasps and sniffs. No. I cry in great, loud, ugly sobs, complete with snot plugging my nose and my skin turning a blotchy red. I try to hide my face in my hands, although I'm shaking so badly that it hardly helps. I'm too miserable to even care about how loud I'm being, or whose sleep I'm disturbing with my weeping. Then again, anyone in the rooms next to me probably wear ear plugs at night, for the screaming.

I cry for so long that a dull, tight headache forms on either side of my head, and my mouth feels sticky. I don't remember the last time I truly broke down this badly. Sure, I've broken things, screamed, disappeared for hours on end, punched nurses- but I haven't cried in this way since… before the Quell.

Through it all, I'm vaguely aware of Peeta's arms locked around me, rocking me back and forth like a small child.


	14. Chapter 14

She fell asleep. Finally. It must be about three in the morning by now, and she's finally drifted off. I must have held her for at least an hour, listening to her keening. I've never seen her like that. At least, not that I remember.

I woke up to a shrill scream, jumping out of my skin. It took me a few minutes to disentangle myself from my sheets enough to bolt out of bed, my sleep-fogged brain slowly working through the situation. It was dark, I was in a bedroom, someone was screaming… Katniss! My feet carried me to her bedside automatically, and my hands reached out and snared her flailing arms.

"Katniss," I said softly. "Katniss, wake up. It's okay. Wake up. It's just a dream. Katniss!"

It was all done without thinking. I didn't need to wonder what to do, because I already knew the drill. But how could I? Had I done this before? Yes… Yes, I had. On a train. It must have been on the Victory Tour.

She jerked awake suddenly, sitting upright so fast that I didn't straighten in time to avoid a collision. _Ow._ I rubbed my forehead with my arm, my hands still occupied by her wrists. When she opened her eyes, the silvery bands around her dilated pupils were so full of terror that I went into autopilot again. I murmured meaningless words to her, stroked her cheek. By the time she was clinging to me with the strength of a vice, bawling, I didn't have the heart to push her away, despite the spike in venom that had me seeing a monster in my arms. Even in the deadly glow of the hijacking, she was just too pathetic to hate, and after a while the shininess wore off.

Now, as the clock clicks to 3:01AM, I gently set her down on her mattress again, cloaking her unhealthily thin form in the quilt, and stand up. Or, I try to. Her hands, a moment ago slack, are now fisted in the hem of my shirt. A small frown has appeared on her face. I freeze, wondering if she's woken up. But no, her breathing hasn't changed, and she doesn't do anything else. After a few moments, her grip relaxes. But when I once again try to leave, she clamps back onto my shirt. Apparently, even asleep, she won't let me leave.

I sigh and give in, crawling beneath the covers. "You're selfish, you know that?" I say quietly. Her fingers twitch at the sound of my voice.

I roll over and stare at the clock, watching as the minutes pass impossibly slowly. I will not get any more sleep tonight.

Sure enough, I'm still awake when 6:00 rolls around. Somehow, in those three hours, Katniss has maneuvered herself so that she's curled up against my back, one of her ankles tucked between mine. And the most irritating thing? I can't even blame her, since she did it in her sleep.

I wriggle out from under the covers and grab an outfit, then slip into the bathroom to get changed. I'm out the door before Katniss even stirs. The path is, at first, unfamiliar, until I take the elevator to the main level. From there, my feet take me straight to the kitchen. Fortunately, the purple ink on my arm says that this is where I'm supposed to be, anyway.

An overly cheerful man with flaming red hair waits for me by the door. Dr. Tolan, my therapist. Well, one of them. I have kind of a lot. "Hey there," he says, his smile nearly splitting his face in half. It would be creepy if it wasn't so genuine. "How did you sleep?"

Instead of bothering trying to explain, I just say, "Fine."

He's not fooled. His head tips to the side, and his orange bangs flopped comically. "Really? Remember, you can-"

"Tell you anything," I finish dryly. "Yeah. I know."

He's a nice guy. He really is. All of my therapists are. They seem to really want to help me, and they never intentionally patronize me. Intentionally being the key word. Half the time, I feel like a little kid getting a lecture from his father after he breaks something.

This train of thought brings on a wave of memories of my childhood, and I push open the door to the kitchen before Dr. Tolan can see the anguish that come with them. My family is dead. Real. My home is destroyed. Real. Those two facts haunt me more than any fake memory.

The moment we step into the kitchen, I know something's wrong. Clue number one: the trickle of red liquid spreading out from behind the counter.

Clue number two: the white-clad soldier with a rose tucked in his breast pocket.

Clue number three: the gun trained on my temple.

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**I know, I know! I'm sorry! It was kind of short and it ended with a terrible cliffhanger. But maybe the next chapter will make up for it. XD**

**Until next time, my lovely readers!**


	15. Chapter 15

The moment I step out of my room, I know something's wrong. Clue number one: the flickering emergency lights illuminating the floor.

Clue number two: the screams coming from down the corridor.

Clue number three: the sirens.

They're not the bomb sirens. They're different. More muted and monotonous, as opposed to shrill and ringing. The sound pulses in sync with the ghostly blue lights at the base of the walls.

I panic and fling myself back into my room, slamming the door shut behind me. The sirens can still be heard, but more faintly. I press my palms and forehead to the door, breathing heavily. _What's going on? Is this supposed to happen? What do I do?_

After a few minutes, I straighten up, clenching my jaw. I'm pathetic. People obviously need help out there, and what am I doing? Cowering in my room, like a frightened rabbit. I am the Mockingjay, and I'm going to fight, darn it.

I quickly put on the combat boots that I used to wear in training, lacing them up tightly, and slip out of my room. This time, there is no screaming- I'm not sure if that's a good sign or a very bad one- but the sirens and the lights blink rhythmically, triggering a headache almost instantly.

I creep down the hallway, the rubber of my boots lending itself to my silent hunters' stride. My mind flicks to all the different possibilities. The first thing I should do is arm myself. I make my way to the nearest loose vent cover and pull it off, wincing at the loud screech of the metal, and then climb in.

The vents are stuffy, hot and dusty, as usual. Seams catch on my palms, scraping and sometimes slicing them open, and nails snag my clothing. It's better once I get into the main system, where the passages are round and smooth, although just as dusty.

I count branching-off passages until I get to sixty-two, and kick open the vent that I know leads into one of the closets of the weapons room, where my Mockingjay suit and bow are kept. No one is there, but that just makes me more nervous. Where is everyone? The District Thirteeners and the invaders? Surely, there has been an invasion. What else would explain all this?

On a whim, I don my Mockingjay suit. The extra protection makes me feel safe. Well… safer. My bow hums when I pick it up, and the quiver settles comfortably between my shoulder blades. Okay. Now I can… what? Where do I go now?

_Control_, I decide. If there are people anywhere, they're barricaded in Control.

I open the door with an arrow knocked, just in case. But, as I suspected, there isn't anyone around. The weapons center looks eerily deserted, what with the discarded guns, knives and other training equipment strewn over the floor, lit by those dim, blue lights. Beetee's wheelchair is on its side by a table near the door, empty. I swallow hard.

I'm so high-strung that I shoot the first person I encounter on sight. Thankfully, they're one of the enemies. A shiver runs down my spine when I see the blood trickle down the arrow shaft, staining the pure-white rose tucked in the peacekeeper's pocket. "Snow," I breathe.

No one comes for the dead Capitol soldier, so, after a few moments, I move on. Control is just a few minutes away, if I take the elevators. If they're not working, I'll have to take the stairs down past the cafeteria and…

Something stops me in my tracks. The cafeteria. Why does that send a jolt of panic through me? What's in the cafeteria? But no, not the cafeteria. The kitchen. Peeta!

I start off fast enough to slip on the blood on the floor, nearly face-planting. How could I have been so stupid? Peeta's probably in the kitchen right now, probably alone, probably in the middle of a terrible flashback in the midst of all this chaos. If a peacekeeper finds him…

I shoot two more soldiers before they can even react, hurtling over their bodies without stopping. I remember how he held me after my nightmare, how sweet and gentle he was, exactly like the old Peeta. I remember the way he tucked the blankets around me before leaving the room, thinking I was still asleep. I remember his blue eyes, all the bluer in the dim light of the bunker, days ago. I will not let him die. I will not let them take him from me. Not again.

I skid into the kitchen just in time to hear the gunshot.

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**Please forgive me for the cliffhanger! ... Again.**


	16. Chapter 16

Dr. Tolan crumples to the ground at the same time I hear the scream. I tear my eyes away from the smoking gun in the peacekeeper's hand and my gaze locks onto the person in the doorway. My heart jumps, then contracts. It's Katniss. Holding a strung bow. A quiver on her back. Her black Mockingjay suit contrasting sharply against the white wall behind her. Before I can even blink, an arrow has been sent through the peacekeeper's neck.

And that's when the flashback starts.

I faintly register something biting into my fingers as I grab onto something for balance, hearing Katniss's voice and biting my lip hard enough to taste blood as the implanted memories slam into me with the force of an oncoming train. Then all I can do is try to hold on as I fight a losing battle inside my head.

I surface a few times, each shorter than the last. Once, a small pair of hands pushes weakly against my chest, as if trying to ward me off. The next time, gunshots explode nearby, I'm shoved to the ground and pain flares in my hip as it collides with the floor. Next, all I can see is white powder falling into my eyes, and I vaguely wonder if it's snowing, and how that's possible hundreds of meters under the ground.

When I finally come up for good, I'm blinded by an intense light in an otherwise dark space. I hold a hand in front of my face to block it, and freeze when I see it's covered in a mix of flour and blood. A glance around tells me that I'm… in the pantry? I sit up. Yes, definitely the pantry. I'm hidden from view behind the tower-like stacks of flour bags, illuminated by the harsh florescent overhead light. A bag lies beside me, split open as if it fell heavily to the floor. Ah. So, that's where the flour came from. But, where did the blood-?

Katniss!

I bolt up, barely managing to think better of it before I yell her name. Where is she? Is this her blood? Oh, God, what did I do?

"Peeta?" the one quiet word, just above a whisper, brings my head snapping back so fast my neck pops.

Katniss crouches on the very top of one of the towers of flower bags, balancing precariously by holding on to an exposed pipe in the ceiling above her. A long cut traces up her cheekbone, vanishing into her hairline. Dark, drying blood forms streams of crimson on her cheek and stains her collar, but I can't tell how bad it really is.

"Katniss," I breathe, pulled in a thousand different directions. I'm relieved, so very relieved that she's okay, but she's not okay, and what's she doing up there, and is she coming down, and what happened, and I don't care what happened, and…

"Are you…?" she trails off, either not sure how to end the sentence or unwilling to say it.

I nod slowly, then step up on a crate, offering a hand to her. She glances at my blood-stained fingers and fear flashes across her face. But she takes it anyway. Guilt squeezes my lungs until I can't take the tiniest of breaths. I reach up and lift her down, cradling her as if she's made of glass in a pathetic attempt to try to undo what I must have done during the flashback. She's shaking.

When I set her down, she wobbles a moment before placing a hand against the wall for balance.

"What did I do?" I ask straight up.

"Nothing."

I roll my eyes at her. "You're a horrible liar, you know that?"

"_Nothing_," she insists.

I point to her cheek. "Obviously not."

She paws at it nervously, causing the cut to partially open up again. I wince. "Well, that… That wasn't… It wasn't your fault."

I glare at her. "What about _this_?" I hold up my hands.

"Your doctor… I think you were trying to drag him in here with you, when the peacekeepers came through, but he was already…" She trails off yet again. I'm getting really fed up with these unfinished sentences. "Not your fault," she finishes shortly.

I give her a withering look and point to the split bag of flour, not even bothering to ask the question.

"That fell when I was climbing up. I didn't mean to hit you in the face with it." She ducks her head. Is she actually… guilty? _She's_ guilty? I'm the one that should be guilty! "Are you okay?"

All I can do is gape at her. Now she's asking me if I'm okay. Oh, perfect. I'm just fine. Never mind the fact that I just tried to kill you.

"Peeta? Hey, answer me. Peeta!"

I hear the words, but I'm so consumed by shame that I don't understand their meaning. All I can think to do is put my hands on her shoulders, pull her lips to mine and whisper, "I'm sorry."

After that, the thoughts recede into the back of my mind as we kiss, briefly, on the flour and blood covered floor of the pantry far below-ground My only thought is, _What an odd place for a kiss._


	17. Chapter 17

**Long-ish chapter for your guys today. To make up for the long-ish time between updates. :/**

**I don't own the Hunger Games. Just sayin'.**

**Enjoy!**

**P.S.- rating has been changed to T, but just for some possible violence (not bad) in upcoming chapters. Nothing major, though.**

* * *

I can't. I can't focus when he's kissing me so tenderly, so gently, as if he expects me to shatter at any moment. He's holding me close to him, hands pressed between my shoulder blades. Even in past times with Peeta, I've never felt so protected. It's nice. It's more than nice. It's…

Before I can figure out just what it is, Peeta pulls away, and I open my eyes. His gaze is distant and troubled, and I can tell he feels guilty for the cut on my face, for chasing me into the pantry, for everything. But it's not his fault. Not really. He may have pushed me into the counter in his venom-dazed state, but he had no way of knowing I would land on a knife. Thankfully, it only sliced my cheek and not my throat. It could have been much worse, and it was really my fault more than his. After all, I burst in wearing my Mockingjay suit and all but pointing an arrow at him. Of course that would trigger a flashback. But how do I get him to believe it?

"Peeta."

He locks eyes with me and his gaze focuses. Blue on gray. "Hmm?" He raises a hand to drag across my uninjured cheek. This is the most calm I've seen him since he returned from the Capitol. His eyes are sky blue, not swallowed by black. His fingers don't tremble, his jaw doesn't lock. It's odd, since he just had a powerful flashback, but he seems like… himself. And I almost change my mind and don't say what I'm about to say. Almost.

"This." I point to my cheek. "Is from a knife. When I fell onto the counter a knife dug into my cheek. You didn't do it."

He eyes me warily. "Methinks she doth protest too much."

One side of my mouth quirks up at the old saying. No one knows where it comes from, or who said it first. It's been around since before the Dark Ages. It means he thinks I'm lying.

"If you had a knife during your flashback, you wouldn't have just scratched my cheek, would you?"

He winces and I realize I've said the complete wrong thing. As usual.

"That's just the point, Kat. If I had a knife-"

"But you didn't."

"I could have killed you."

"You didn't."

"I could have-"

"How many times do we need to have this conversation?"

"Katniss."

"Peeta."

He stares at me, and I stare right back. He's not going to win this fight, and he needs to realize that.

After a moment he looks down. "I don't like it."

"Me either."

He twines his fingers with mine and leads me out from behind the stacks of flour bags, into the kitchen, past the dead bodies- I flinch and turn away- out the kitchen door and into the dim, emergency-lighted hallway. It's quiet now. The kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl- a cold, dry, empty quiet that feels like there should be noise, but isn't. No gunshots echo through the tunnels, no shouts ring out. Either the Capitol has taken control of Thirteen, the rebels took down the peacekeepers or everyone is dead.

I glance at Peeta. "Control?" I ask.

He frowns. "Where's that?"

"Further down. It's where they hold meetings."

Nodding hesitantly, Peeta says, "I was going to take you to the hospital wing to get your cheek looked at, but I guess that's as good idea as any."

So, we slowly make our way toward Command. Our footsteps echo, making it hard to tell if we're being followed or not. I constantly look over my shoulder.

All the way to Command, we don't see a soul. I'm both relieved and overwhelmingly suspicious when a guard stops us just before the door.

"Stop," he croaks, then coughs. I see a bruise on his neck in the vague shape of a handprint and can't suppress my involuntary shudder. Peeta sees it, too. His eyes drift to my own throat and stay there. The guard puts up a hand. "No one's allowed in Command except-"

"High-level officials?" I guess. "I'm the Mockingjay. He's…" I stop, unsure of Peeta's rank. But at the word _Mockingjay_, we're waved in.

All the usual suspects are crowded around the table. Coin, Plutarch, the film crew, Finnick, Haymitch, Gale and everyone else. As soon as the door opens, they all look up almost simultaneously.

"Ah," Coin says. "We were just discussing you two."

"Oh?" I say, and the word is weak and treble. Like a quickly-piped note on a flute.

She nods once and fixes her gaze on two empty chairs. Peeta and I sit. I catch Gale's eye and he gives me a slight frown, silently asking me a question. I shake my head. _Later._

Haymtich starts out in a post-hangover drawl. "Peacekeepers were let in at one of the surface doors."

"Let-?" I start, but Haymitch cuts me off.

"Let me finish. It was a small force- about fifty men- so they were obviously meant to come in and take over by stealth. They nearly did. Thankfully, one of Beetee's security cameras recognized them and the alarm came online."

"They tried to hide, but we ferreted them out," Gale adds. "They're all either dead or contained now."

"Right. So, like I said-"

Coin stands up, flicking a wrist in a signal for Haymitch to stop talking. "Like Mr. Abernanthy said, they were let in at one of the surface doors." She leans on the black glass of the table, her eyes on me. No, not on me. On Peeta. "_Someone let them in._"

I don't get it, at first. That is, until Finnick says, "You think there's a spy in Thirteen?"

My muscles stiffen with shock. Coin thinks Peeta is a spy. Coin thinks Peeta let the Peacekeepers in.

"It's the only explanation," the President says smoothly, and I have never hated her and her colorless eyes more than I do in this moment, as she continues to gaze at Peeta.

"What do you plan to do?" I say, as loudly as I dare without shouting. I put a healthy dose of force into my words, and just a hint of menace. She needs to know that I will not allow her to do anything to Peeta. I will not allow her to harm my boy with the bread. He didn't let them in. _He didn't._ I may not have proof, but I don't need it. He wouldn't do that.

Coin gets the message. "I intend," she says slowly, "to conduct a _thorough_ investigation. Anyone found guilty will be disposed of. We have no use for traitors."

I throw caution to the wind. "And I have no use for hasty judgment. I do hope you're careful."

Maybe I imagine it, but as we exchange these statements loaded with double meaning, she grows tenser. She grips the edge of the table, her knuckles standing out. She doesn't respond, but stares me down as if trying to see beyond my eyes, into my mind and pick apart my thoughts. I stare steadily back, trying to put all my determination into my gaze.

Finally, without looking down, Coin says, "Mr. Mellark, you should know that we intend to send you to District Two. You'll be doing propos there."

This time I can't stop the flash of emotion that comes onto my face. Peeta? In Two? A district so close to the front lines? No. Nonononono. A familiar, tight headache starts to build in my temples, and I know I'm on the edge of curling up into a ball and shutting out the world, as I've done a few times before. He can't leave. Not when I think I might be getting him back. The headache pounds against my skull.

"Katniss goes too."

Every head at the table swivels to watch Haymitch.

His dirty boots are propped up on the pristine table, and he leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. His eyes are closed. I would think I imagined his voice, if not for everyone else gaping at him along with me. Then he opens one eye, looking bored, and repeats, "Katniss should go too."

"Why?" Coin asks coolly.

He rolls his eyes as if it's obvious, and we're all idiots for not figuring it out. "_For the propos. _Sure, the boy will do fine on his own, but if you really want to rally the troops, nothing's better than the Star-Crossed Lovers." The chair falls forward onto all four legs with a bang. He slides his boots off the table, leaving a streak of mud on the touch-screen surface. "Unless, of course, she's needed here."

_Thank you, Haymitch!_ I silently cheer. No one can argue that point. I'm not needed here. All I've been doing is sulking and taking up space. And the propos would certainly be better with both Peeta and me in them. Keeping me here would be pointless, and everyone can see that. Coin has no choice but to send me. I shoot Haymitch a grateful glance. Maybe my old mentor isn't so useless after all.

Coin recovers quickly. "Of course," she says. "I would have suggested it myself, had I been informed of Miss Everdeen's improved… condition."

She means my partial insanity.

I sit up straight and reply, in honeyed tones, "Yes, I've been feeling much better, thank you." I enjoy the irritation visible in her eyes for a split second, and dare to smile sweetly to rub it in.

"Well, then, that's settled. A hovercraft will be sent out tomorrow. Plutarch, if you'll attend to the film preparations?"

"Of course." I can already see the gears turning in his head, plotting how to best portray the Star-Crossed Lovers on the battlefield.

We're dismissed. As we crowd around the door, jostling to get out, Haymitch sidles up at my elbow. "That was a darn risky thing to do, girl," he growls.

"So? It worked," I rebuke.

"Maybe. Or you might have just made it worse." He pushes past me. "Oh, and you're welcome for saving your sorry butt."

I glare at him until he's out of sight. But, now that I'm free of that stuffy, close room, free of the President's bland gaze, I'm afraid he might be right. By challenging Coin, I might have just set in motion something irreversible.


	18. Chapter 18

District Two, as it turns out, isn't nearly as close to the front lines as I thought. At least, _we_ aren't as close to the front lines as I thought. I am both overwhelmingly relieved and irrationally angry. I want to be doing something- something useful! – not just sitting in front of a camera, made-up to look glamorously grimy and fed meaningless lines. I want to be fighting. I want to shoot my bullets and arrows at things that will shatter or bleed, not at pre-arranged pods. I hate it. Of course, I wouldn't want to be in the front lines, either. Not really. I've had my share of bloodshed in my life. I know that, and I know that being in the front lines would mean nothing if not violence and stress. But I can't help wanting to escape this camera-infested camp.

The journey to Two was long and boring and made up of several different modes of transportation. Hovercraft, train, all-terrain vehicles, legs. By the time we arrived at the camp, it was already swarming with other soldiers. Some of them looked at us with curiosity, some with resentment and some with some small amount of respect. Most of them ignored us. We found the space reserved for us, set up our tents and looked to Jackson for instructions.

Now Squad 451, or the Star Squad, has somewhat of a routine down. We get up, eat our self-heating breakfast packets, do our various chores around camp, walk to a pre-determined block, get the cameras rolling, blow up some pods, say our lines, check the tape, film again, check the tape, pack up, go back to camp, eat, gather for an informal meeting and then retreat to our own tents.

Technically, everyone has their own tent. In fact, we have about twice as many as we need, there are so many extras. But when the nightmares get bad enough to wake everyone up at least once a night with the screaming, Peeta and I start to share a tent. No one questions our transparent excuse that his tent developed a leak, and no one points out the availability of replacements. If Peeta and I sharing a tent is what it takes for everyone to get a full night's sleep, no one is going to stop us any time soon.

We don't always sleep. Sometimes, the nightmares are too much and we don't dare go back to sleep, or don't go to sleep to begin with. On those nights, we just lie next to each other quietly, talking or listening to the muffled sounds of the camp and the night. We talk about inconsequential things, mostly. The food on the Victory Tour. Haymitch's preference for brandy. Prim's goat. A painting. And, occasionally, shy kisses are exchanged before we roll over and wait for morning.

The questions aren't limited to nighttime, though. Once, after dinner, the whole squad is gathered around the heater and Peeta suddenly turns to look at me.

"Your favorite color… is green?" he asks.

"That's right. And yours is orange," I supply. The question-answer rhythm is familiar to me, by now, and I barely have to look up from the map I'm studying.

"Orange?" He seems unconvinced.

Then I do look up. "Not bright orange. Not like Effie's wig." I grin, remembering the nauseating color our escort chose to don that day. He smiles back at me. "But soft. Like the sunset. At least, that's what you told me once."

"Oh." He closes his eyes, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "I remember. It was on the roof."

"Yes," I say. I wonder what else he remembers about the roof. I wonder if he remembers holding me while I napped, waking me up for that sunset. I thought it would be my last.

"I thought it would be my last," I repeat out loud, my voice soft.

"What?" It's Finnick that speaks, this time, and I realize that almost everyone is looking at me now, not just Peeta.

My cheeks heat as I look back to the map. Were they watching us this whole time? Listening to our conversation? "Um. The sunset. On the roof. The last day we had to ourselves, before the Quell. I thought it would be the last sunset I would get to enjoy… Anything after that would be Gamemaker-constructed."

Leeg 1, Castor, Boggs and Cressida glance at each other.

"What?" I say, near agitation.

"You… really didn't think you'd survive?" Leeg 1 ventures cautiously, as if she's not sure what my response will be.

I take a breath and worry my bottom lip between my teeth. Stalling for time before I answer. "I didn't plan on it, no."

"Because you wanted Peeta to live," she says, sounding more assured. This, at least, she is something she believes to be true. I suppose that makes two of us.

"Yes," I answer simply, because what else is there to say, really?

I don't even bother looking up from the map. I can tell everyone is staring at me, and looking will only make it worse. But, minutes later when I lift my eyes to check the time, Gale's thundercloud gaze is still on me. I start a little, unprepared for the scrutiny. He raises his eyebrows meaningfully and gestures for me to follow him. We pass through rows of tents silently until we reach the water spigot.

"What was that?" Gale says at last, shoving his water canister under the frothy stream.

"What was what?"

"You know. That. That whole _sacrificing-Peeta-because-you-love-him_ business. The cameras aren't on, Catnip. You can stop regurgitating lines."

I take a step back. "I wasn't. I was just talking. Leeg asked a question, I answered it. End of story."

"Really?" He straightens suddenly, twisting the knob on the spigot so that it creaks in protest. The blast of water sputters to a weak drip. "Catnip. I'm not saying to give up. He's been through a lot and it seems like he's recovering pretty well. But…"

He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Don't forget about me, okay? I'm still here, and I'm still your hunting partner. I'm not about to let you forget that."

He grins that crooked grin that I know so well, and I feel a smile try to curve my lips, but it isn't enough to override everything else going on inside my head. Plus, there's an undertone to his voice that I don't quite like. The smile gives way to a twitch of the lips and a nod. Gale sighs.

"Look. Like I said, I know he's recovering okay. But, if… No matter what, if you ever need someone… I'm just a few tents away."

I know without asking that he's not just referring to someone to talk to or someone to go hunting with. He means a companion, a… What did Prim call it? A sweetheart. After the kiss in Twelve, I'm not shocked at the offer. It's not that I'm disgusted, either. Gale is smart and strong and he understands me.

But.

I just don't feel that connection with him. I scan my thoughts, my memories, my feelings for any indication of how I might respond to this. Yes, there is a glimmer of appeal. More than a glimmer. Gale would make an excellent partner, if I was to choose him, except for one thing: Peeta. As long as I remember Peeta's warmth and sweetness, I will never be able to feel truly right with Gale.

It makes my insides twinge with a plethora of emotions just to admit this to myself, so at last, all I say is, "I won't forget."

He probes my eyes, searching for the reasons behind my somewhat lacking answer. I don't know if I want him to find those reasons or not.

"Right."

I'm left blissfully alone at the spigot as he returns to our squad. Alone, so I can turn in the opposite direction and let any expression I want cross my face. Just that short conversation drained me more than a whole day in training. Darn it, why can't things be simple for once?

That night, I bury my face in Peeta's shoulder without saying a word. I can't feel right with Gale because of Peeta. But does that mean that I shouldn't feel right with Peeta because of Gale? I don't know.

I listen to the scuffing of rotating shifts outside, and just barely hear Jackson's voice saying that we'll be moving to the outskirts of the Capitol tomorrow. Before I can process that information, I'm asleep.

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**Up next- the Capitol. And y'all know what that means! ;) All of our favorite Hijacked-Everlark moments. :D **

**Let me know what you think! I've been trying to make the chapters a little longer, since you all seemed to like Ch. 17's length.**

**Until next time!**


	19. Chapter 19

**I own nothing but the plot.**

**If you have time, a review would be greatly appreciated. :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It's been days since we arrived at the Capitol, and it's just like I remember it. Candy-colorful, almost painful to the eyes. Dazzling and amazing and intimidating. Yes, in this way, it is exactly the same. And at the same time, it's completely different. The cars, the _people_ that used to swarm thorough the streets are gone. Now it's just empty windows covered by curtains and random, abandoned objects lying at corners. My squad tells me that all the citizens have moved farther into the core of the Capitol, away from the encroaching rebel troops.

Our schedule is very much the same as it was in Two- shoot at things, film, film again, shoot some more, film, go back to camp, film. Always film. The cameras never go away. Castor and Pollux only get to take off their boxy suits when we eat and sleep. Katniss tells me, one day when we're on our way to a propo location, that she's nicknamed them the Insects. I must say, it's a fitting description.

Now, as we reenact a pod going off, I can barely keep the smile off my face. I never thought anyone could be a worse actor than Katniss. As it turns out, none of our squad is very talented in the way of acting. I watch as expertly-trained District Thirteen soldiers, usually completely stoic, put on ridiculous faces and dive to the ground in mock-slow-motion. Before long, everyone is laughing.

Boggs waves a hand, wiping his own smile off his face. "Pull it together, Four-Five-One," he says, fiddling with the Holo. He takes one step back and-

The ground at his feet explodes in a starburst of orange concrete and sanguine blood. Screams pierce the air, then are cut short. Smoke burns my nose and throat. I stumble back, shocked and disoriented. What's going on? Where am I? Where's Katniss? _Katniss. Kill. No. Love. Kill love kill._

I spot her kneeling next to what remains of Boggs, the Holo in her hands.

_Kill her. Kill her now! _

_No, no, no. I love Katniss. No._

_Kill her!_

_No._

_Now!_

_NO!_

"Prepare to retreat!" Jackson hollers. Retreat where? Away from here, surely. Away from the Mutt. That's what she must mean. There she is. She's grabbing Boggs' arm, dragging him down the road and following Gale and Leeg 1. A thick, gasoline-like scent creeps up behind me and I look over my shoulder just long enough to see the wave of oily black matter rearing up, higher than the rooftops. I have to be quick. I dart at her, clamping onto her arm and yanking her back. She falls to the blood-soaked pastel tiles with a cross between a shriek and a gasp.

I have my gun. The blanks inside it won't kill, but I don't need to shoot. I raise it above her head, preparing to crush her skull.

_Yes. Kill her. KILL HER._

_No! No, no, no, nonononono!_

I hesitate. Her eyes are wide and swimming with tears. Do Mutts cry?

_Kill her kill her kill her._

_No. Love, love, love._

And then she's gone, rolling to the side faster than I can make a decision, before I can even act. I growl in frustration. A body slams into me and I panic, lodging my boots under their rib cage and launching them away from me without even checking who it is. More arms wrap around me, more hands restrain me. I kick and jab my elbows randomly, but I can't dislodge them. Venom-fury is slowly being replaced by pure, instinctual panic. The tarlike wave is starting to descend, and the fumes are only getting worse the closer it gets. My head spins.

My vision goes blurred and I'm aware of being half-dragged through a doorway, of the door slamming shut and of voices shouting. By the time my head clears enough for me to focus on my surroundings, it seems I've missed something important.

"He's gone?" Finnick asks.

"Who's-?" I start to say, but then I see. Boggs is, most definitely, gone.

"We need to get out of here, now," he continues. "We just set off a streetful of pods. You can bet they've got us on surveillance tapes."

"Count on it," says Castor. "All the streets are covered by surveillance cameras. I bet they set off the black wave manually when they saw us taping the propo."

My gaze finds Katniss, pale and shaking and staring down at the blood-stained Holo in her hand. I move to her quietly. I want to put my arm around her, pull her to me and stop her trembling, I don't dare. How can I, when not five minutes ago I was ready to smash her skull in?

"Our radio communicators went dead almost immediately. Probably an electromagnetic pulse device. But I'll get us back to camp. Give me the Holo," Jackson commands.

Katniss clutches it to her chest. "No," she says. I stare at her along with everyone else. "Boggs gave it to me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jackson snaps.

"It's true," Homes pipes up. "He transferred the prime security clearance to her while he was dying. I saw it."

"Why would he do that?"

Katniss pauses. After a few seconds' silence, she slowly draws her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down on it. I know Katniss, and I know what this means. She's about to tell a lie.

"Because I'm on a special mission for President Coin. I think Boggs was the only one who knew about it. And Peeta," she adds.

I nod. I'm practiced enough at lying that I know my expression is calm and collected. But inside I'm scrambling for answers. What is she doing? She's going to get us both into trouble! But I'd better go along with it, or get us found out right away…

"To do what?" Jackson asks, speaking with her teeth clamped together.

"To assassinate President Snow before the loss of life from this war makes our population unsustainable."

_Careful, Kat. Don't push it. Leave it at that and they just might believe you._

"I don't believe you," says Jackson.

Darn it.

"As your current commander, I order you to transfer the prime security clearance over to me."

"No," Katniss says.

_Don't push it, don't push it._

"That would be in direct violation of President Coin's orders."

_You pushed it._

Sure enough, half the guns on the squad are pointed at her. The other half are pointed at Jackson. I step half in-front of Katniss, glaring at those aiming at her. If they think I'm dangerous during an episode, well, they haven't seen anything yet.

I'm just about to push Katniss out of the way and shoot Jackson myself when Cressida speaks up. "It's true. That's why we're here. Plutarch wants it televised. He thinks if we can film the Mockingjay assassinating Snow, it will end the war."

This is interesting. Why is our squad sticking up for us?

Jackson narrows her eyes. She jerks her chin at me. "And why is he here?"

I glance at Katniss, willing her to have an answer. An insane boy who occasionally turns on a dime and tries to kill the girl he loves is hardly the person you want on your war-ending team.

Cressida comes to the rescue once again. "Because two post-games interviews with Caesar Flickerman were shot in President Snow's personal quarters. Plutarch thinks Peeta may be of some use as a guide in a location we have little knowledge of."

"That's right," I confirm. "I'll do my best to help, but honestly, I don't remember that well." I shrug. It's true, and sometimes the best way to sell a lie is with the truth.

Gale stops the discussion with a shout. "We have to go! I'm following Katniss. If you don't want to, head back to camp. But let's move!"

The Holo is studied and prodded, a short, tense discussion is whispered in the hallway and masks go on. Katniss leads us out the front door. Even with the mask, I can smell the blackness. It's the same combination of gasoline and tar as before, but it doesn't make me woozy this time. Maybe it's the mask. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm no longer under the influence of a spike of venom. Either way, I'm fully conscious when we stop in front of a teardrop shape hanging from four cords. A hand protrudes from it, and it's only then that I realize we're missing a member of our team. Mitchell. What happened to him? What kind of pod did he get hit with?

"If anyone needs to go back, for whatever reason, now is the time. No questions asked, no hard feelings." Katniss turns to look at the squad. No one makes a move.

"We're with you," I say firmly, looking her in the eyes.

She gives a terse nod, turning away, and Gale starts to point out places where the wave activated pods. I take the opportunity to lightly touch Katniss's elbow and whisper, "I'm sorry."

"I know," she says simply, and a moment later, her small hand slides into my own.

It's like walking through one of my nightmares. Everything, _everything_ is shiny. The buildings are glossy black, the streetlights are dripping with goo and even the ground stretches and squishes unnaturally under our boots. I grit my teeth, forcing down the corresponding shininess of venom memories. Katniss's grip on my hand helps keep me in control. But just barely. I can feel the tension in my muscles, feel the familiar anger bubbling inside me. I'll snap any moment.

Finally, just when I think the memories will overwhelm me, we stop. Homes picks an apartment door lock and we pile in, shoving the door shut behind us. I lean against a wall and dig my wrists into the handcuffs I had all but forgotten about until now.

I don't know how much longer I can last.


	20. Chapter 20

**Note: because we're into the last part of Mockingjay now, when they're in the Capitol, I'm going to be using a lot of quotes straight from the book. I don't own any of it. Everything is Suzanne Collins'. :)**

**Enjoy, my lovely readers!**

* * *

I lead Peeta to the fluffy, pillow-strewn couch and let him collapse. He grabs a small, blue cushion and bites down on it, warding off some shiny memory. Everyone else sinks down on the various rainbow-shaded sofas and ottomans. Jackson keeps her gun trained on Peeta, even though he's handcuffed and clearly in no state to fight at the moment. What on earth am I going to do with the crew? I can't lead ten people through the Capitol on a pretend mission, even if I could read the Holo. Should I, could I have send them back when I had a chance? Or was it too dangerous? Both to them personally and my mission? Maybe I shouldn't have listened to Boggs, because he might have been in some delusional death state. I shiver as I remember his words, whispered in the kitchen just before he died. _"Don't trust them. Don't go back. Do what you came to do."_

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and jump, but it's just Peeta, dropping the pillow and putting his head in his hands. I touch his elbow questioningly, and when he nods, lean against him. With my chin on his shoulder, I can hear his unsteady breaths. The walk through the Capitol must have triggered a lot more shiny memories than I thought.

A distant chain of explosions sends a tremor through the room.

"It wasn't close," Jackson assures us. "A good four or five blocks away."

"We left Boggs," says Leeg 1.

We all jump violently when the television brightens inexplicably, emitting several high-pitched beeps. It reminds me distantly of the warning call of the mockngjays before a hovercraft appears. But, then, maybe I'm just fitting two unlike puzzle pieces together. The mechanical beeps sound nothing like the bird call. Maybe my mind is searching for familiar things in this completely alien setting.

"It's all right!" calls Cressida. "It's just an emergency broadcast. Every Capitol television is automatically activated for it."

We watch as footage from just a few hours ago is played. Smoke drifts in front of the camera, making the scene hazy, but you can still clearly make out the black wave, Gale and Leeg 1 sweeping for pods, Homes and I dragging Boggs. My breath catches as I realize what's about to happen. Maybe they won't show it. Maybe they'll cut off here. Maybe. But, no. The cameras keep rolling as Peeta pulls me back, raises his gun, hesitates. I roll to the side just as Mitchell tackles Peeta, sending them both to the ground. I close my eyes, but I know that onscreen Peeta is kicking Mitchell off him, right into the barbed wire net that ultimately took his life. Beside me, the real Peeta takes a sharp breath.

The clip ends as the black wave crashes into the cameras, leaving only a split-second shot of Gale shooting at the cables that hold Mitchell aloft. The reporter identifies Gale, Finnick, Boggs, Peeta, Cressida and me by name.

"There's no aerial-" Castor starts to say, but I don't hear the rest of it. I'm focused on Peeta. He's staring blankly at the screen, not moving, not shaking, just staring. It scares me.

"Peeta?" I call softly. "Peeta?"

"I… I didn't know…" Finally, an emotion crosses his face, and it's horror. "I didn't mean to!"

"I know, I know," I say. He must not have realized how close he was to hurting me, during his episode. The gun never came down, but if it had, well. Best to shrug it off, hope he doesn't blame himself for something he didn't do. "It wasn't your fault. Plus, you didn't even do anything."

In the background, I hear a reporter pronounce us dead. The information turns my head towards the television. Dead? That means… What? That they think the wave killed us? Surely, they will stop pursuing us, now. We'll still have to be careful, but if no one sees us, we should have relatively little trouble moving through the Capitol. Everyone in Thirteen, though, they must think us dead as well. What will Prim think? Will she believe it, or keep faith that her big sister will still make it, somehow? I silently watch the rest of the broadcast, which is composed of another run of the footage, a montage of the Mockingjay's rise to rebel power, and a discussion of my well-deserved violent end. The screen fades and the sound shuts off. I'm still thinking of Prim.

"So, now that we're dead, what's our next move?" Gale asks cheerfully. He must have come to the same conclusion that I did: how easy it will be to continue, our journey.

"Isn't it obvious?"

My glee implodes the second I hear Peeta's tone of voice. Something's wrong. Something's wrong. Something's wrong.

"Our next move… is to kill me."

Somehow, through my shock, I manage to go from sitting on the couch to kneeling in front of Peeta and pointing an arrow at Jackson. Leeg 1 gasps. Castor, Pollux, Cressida and Homes surge to their feet. Jackson lowers her eye to the scope of her gun. All this happens in the space of approximately a second and a half. She's had her gun on Peeta since we got here, but only now does she pull back the small, flat disk by her thumb, clicking the bullet into place. Except, now I'm between her and her target. She's one trigger away from both of us dying, me from a bullet and her from an arrow.

"Soldier Everdeen," she says formally, "Step aside."

"No." My answer is flat and clipped. There's no need to elaborate.

I feel Peeta's hands on my shoulders, trying to move me, but I won't move. Whatever he's thinking, whatever's gotten into him, I will not allow him to die. Even if he wants to. I'm too selfish to let him go.

"Don't be ridiculous," says Homes, and I'm not sure if he's talking to me or Peeta.

"I just murdered a member of our squad!" shouts Peeta.

"You pushed him off you. You couldn't have known he would trigger the net at that exact spot," says Finnick, trying to calm him. He picks up his own gun and holds it in a defensive stance, not really aiming at anything, but ready at a moment's notice. He fixes his ocean eyes on Jackson.

"Who cares? He's dead, isn't he?" I still have my back to him, but I can hear the tears in Peeta's voice. "I didn't know. I've never seen myself like that before."

Cressida goes to stand directly in front of Jackson, no more than an inch from the gun's barrel, putting herself between it and me. Between it and Peeta. I want to be guilty, but I'm too filled with adrenaline to feel anything else.

"It's not your fault, Peeta," says Finnick.

Gale is next to come stand beside me.

"You can't take me with you," Peeta argues. "It's only a matter of time before I kill someone else."

I glance at Cressida, Finnick and Gale before lowering my arrow and spinning around to face Peeta. At least I know Jackson won't shoot just yet, with three people to back me up. His cheeks have tears clinging to them, and I'm reminded of the one other time I've seen him cry, in the pitch-black storage room in the bunker of Thirteen. How I wish we could be back there, all alone and safe. Suddenly, the claustrophobic tunnels don't seem so bad anymore.

"Listen to me." I take his face in my hands and force him to look at me. "You're not dying. You're not leaving. Do you understand? I won't let you."

"I'm dangerous."

"No."

"I'm-"

"NO! Do you think I came all this way just to lose you? God dang it, Peeta, if I have to knock you out and drag you all the way back to Thirteen I will! I _need you!_" By the end of my rant, my voice has risen to a shriek. Loud enough to give us away, maybe, and definitely loud enough for every person in the room to hear. My chest is heaving as if I've just run a mile and I'm on the verge of tears. Peeta looks like he's been hit over the head by a frying pan, with his eyes as wide as saucers. "I need you," I repeat, this time so softly I'm not sure if he heard me.

Far off in the distance, a hovercraft rumbles past and someone shouts out of a crackling loudspeaker. I can feel multiple sets of eyes on me, on us, as the dust settles. All I can see is a blur of colors, my eyes clouded with tears. I blink, sending them down my cheeks.

Peeta's lips part to say something.

I cut him off before he can start. "Please."

"All right." He leans his forehead against mine. "All right. I'll stay. But you need to promise me something."

"Yes," I sob. Anything.

"If I ever do anything like that again- ever- do whatever you need to do in order to stop me. If you have to, kill me."

"But- I-"

"That extends to all of you, too," he says, raising his voice and looking up at the semi-circle of people around us. "If I attack someone, don't even hesitate. Just kill me."

Several people nod stiffly. I catch a glimpse of Jackson between Cressida and Gale, lowering her gun sourly.

"And I'd like one of those tablets," Peeta adds. "Nightlock. In case I get captured. I don't want to go back to Snow."

I shudder visibly. I'm not sure which is worse, the thought of Peeta back in Snow's hands or Peeta taking his own life.

Fortunately, Homes comes to the rescue before I need to argue. "I'm afraid that's not possible," he says smoothly. "Each of us only has just one, and considering the past few minutes, it's probably not a good idea to give you one of those, anyway." He looks to the rest of the group. "Think we might find some food here?"

As half the group moves off to start the search for dinner, I stand shakily. The emotional expenditure has, as usual, worn me out. I swipe the back of my hand across my eyes.

Peeta stands with me. "Katniss."

"I can't believe you would just leave me." I didn't really have a chance to realize it before, but now I'm angry. How could he even think of dying, on purpose, when he knows how much I depend on him? Then again… maybe he doesn't know. Or, didn't. Not until I screamed it at the top of my lungs.

"I'm just trying to do what's best. You're better off without me, all of you."

I turn to look up into his eyes, drawing him into a loose hug. His arms encircle me in response. "I don't believe that. And even if it's true, I'm still selfish. I don't care about the greater good. You want to be dead? Fine." I point to the blank television. "Now you are."

We all are, according to the Capitol. And, as far as anyone knows, that conclusion may be accurate in a matter of days, or hours. But right now we're alive, and living bodies need food. So I break away from our embrace and go to join the others in search of dinner.


	21. Chapter 21

**I don't own the Hunger Games.**

**Almost done, guys! I really hope you'll like what I've done with the story. I know I liked writing it! :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Katniss pulls away after a few moments and follows the others to look for food. I let out a deep breath, momentarily puffing up my cheeks, and go after her. We catch up just in time to watch Messalla pop a vent cover out of the wall. He thrusts in his arm, and when he pulls back, he's grasping a can of soup. Next comes a box of cookies.

"Isn't this illegal?" Leeg 1 asks.

"On the contrary, in the Capitol you'd be stupid not to do it. Even before the Quarter Quell, people were starting to stock up on scarce supplies."

"While others went without," Says Leeg 1, echoing my thoughts. It's been demonstrated many times, but I'm still struck by the unfairness of the Capitol's way of living.

Messalla scoops out another armful of cans. "Right. That's how it works here."

"Fortuantely, or we wouldn't have dinner. Everybody grab a can." Gale chooses chicken noodle for himself.

I scan the pile, and am about to just grab a random can when my eyes light on one labeled _Lamb Stew._ A wave of confusion sweeps over me at the emotions connected with this name. It takes me a few seconds to figure it out, but when I do, it makes sense: this is Katniss's favorite food. I take the can and hand it to her. "Here."

Her eyes widen slightly, maybe remembering… what? What else is this connected with? I can't quite remember. I know the memory is there, but I can't access it. As she takes the can, I ask, "This is your favorite. Real or not real?"

"Real," she says distractedly, running a thumb over the lid before pulling it open. When she glances up to see me, still waiting for an explanation, she goes on, "We had it in the Capitol before our first Games, and also in the cave."

We share the stew and some ravioli, bending the lids to use as spoons. I give the last few bites to Katniss, my mind full of the echoes of memories- the sound and smell of rain, chilled air, a conversation that felt too good to be true. I close my eyes, trying to coax the memories into vividness. Beeps from the TV startle me out of my thoughts for the second time. They show images of most of our squad, and then Snow starts speaking again. I look away, trying to stop his poison voice from working its way into my head again. And then it's Coin's voice, and I look back long enough to catch the beginning of her own speech, which is mostly about Katniss. I go back to tugging at my handcuffs.

"I had no idea how much I meant to her," Katniss says afterwards. I grin in spite of myself.

Snow's voice again, and then the TV shuts off.

"Except that you won't find her," says Finnick, and I wonder what I've missed this time. Won't find who? Katniss? Because she's not dead and buried in ashes like they think?

Katniss sighs. "We can get a head start on them at least." She sounds tired, which reminds me of my own fatigue. When was the last time I slept? Just last night? It seems like decades ago.

Jackson grudgingly shows Katniss the Holo, and I try to pay attention. Really, I try. But I can't concentrate, and the little wave of insistent, shiny memories that's been pushing at me since this morning is growing larger, and it's a struggle just to keep my eyes open. It's decided that we're to travel underground, and I give an involuntary shiver. Johanna and Annie and I were all kept underground during our time captive after the Quell.

We try to erase any signs of us being here, flipping cushions, hiding empty cans and bolting the front door. I consider arguing my case again, insisting that they go without me, but one pointed glare from Katniss and the words die in my throat. If looks could kill, I'd be a dead man. Which, ironically, is what I was about to argue for. I get up and join the crowd about to enter the maintenance shaft.

"Should we free his hands?" asks Leeg 1.

"No!" I say, a little more forcefully than I meant to. I pull my arms close to my body just in case they try anyway. Can't they see I'm unstable enough as it is? Giving me more opportunities is the last thing we need.

"No." To my surprise, it's Katniss who says this. "But I want the key."

I look at her curiously as she takes the tiny key and drops it into her pocket. It clinks against something.

"What else are you carrying?" I ask quietly.

Her breath catches. "The pearl."

She doesn't need to elaborate. This is one memory that's fixed firmly in my mind.

We crawl through the claustrophobic tube, and I grit my teeth, reminding myself that the worst is yet to come. This is confirmed the moment I step on the ladder that will take us down into the basement of the world, under the cellars, under the subways, under everything. The smell of decay mixed with plastic makes my head swim, enough that I have to pause to put on my mask.

Once we're all gathered at the bottom, Homes stops us to look at the Holo. While he and Jackson fuss over the device, pointing out differently colored little blips of light, Pollux grips Castor's arm. "My brother worked down here after he became an Avox. Took five years before we were able to buy his way up to ground level. Didn't see the sun once," he explains.

My skin crawls just imagining this. Five years trapped down here, and no way of knowing if you were ever coming out. I turn to Pollux. "Well, then you just became out most valuable asset." I must have said the right thing, because he gives me a weak smile. When I turn again, I'm met with an even brighter one from Katniss. "What?"

"You sound like yourself," she says wistfully.

"I feel like myself," I answer, and in this moment, it's true.

But it doesn't last long. Five yards into the network of tunnels and I'm digging my wrists into the handcuffs hard enough to draw blood. Pollux's translated warnings from Castor, speaking of hidden cameras and sudden gushes of sewage water and unusually large rodents, make it even worse. After a few hours I latch onto Katniss's hand with enough strength to crush her bones, but she makes no noise of protest. She just turns her hand to twine her fingers in mine and wedges one shoulder under mine to keep me upright. This, more than the guards on either side of us or the pain from the shackles, holds the Mutt in me at bay.

Finally, _finally_, we find a place to rest. The slab of metal that makes the door keeps out most of the smell and noise of the tunnels, which are replaced by a metallic aroma and the buzz of machines. I yank off my mask and crumble to the floor, placing my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. A few moments later, Katniss nudges at my arms, somehow managing to climb onto my lap without disturbing my position. She slouches to look into my face, curled up like a cat. I can easily imagine a tail folded around the toes of her boots.

"Hey there, Kitty Kat," I murmur, knowing perfectly well she'll hate the nickname.

Her nose wrinkles. "What did you call me?"

"Kitty Kat," I say innocently. "Why? Something the matter?"

"Yes. It's ridiculous." She crosses her arms and tucks her head under my chin, simultaneously avoiding eye contact with me and snuggling closer. I laugh at her and she bumps her forehead into my collar bone a little harder than necessary. This just sends me into another fit of giggles.

"What if I started calling you Bread Boy?" she says irritably.

"I'd be okay with that."

She growls, sounding very much like Buttercup when he's annoyed. I know this because Prim would occasionally bring the cat in to visit me, before Katniss started to come. I wonder if it's worth it to bring this up, but decide not. I don't want Katniss to get up and move somewhere else. So instead I rest my chin on top of her head and loop my arms around her waist. I discover, quite by accident, that this is the perfect position to play with her hair. She growls again when I pull the tie out of her braid, but lets me unravel it and run my fingers through it. It can't be the most comfortable way to sleep, but she drops off within minutes.

When I glance up to check the time on Finnick's watch, I catch him staring at us. I raise my eyebrows and he grins unashamedly, pointing at Katniss. He mouths, _"Kitty Kat?"_

I just shake my head, which makes him grin again. I barely stay awake through the duration of my watch. By the time I shake Katniss awake, I don't even have the energy to turn around so she's facing the room before I put my head on her shoulder and drop off.

* * *

_Katniss is out hunting Buttercup and I'm following her, balancing a stack of plates in one hand and a quiver of arrows in the other. We're chased by a pack of red-eyed, demonic stuffed bears and I throw the plates to slow them down. Katniss asks for her quiver, but I've dropped it somewhere behind us, and then Caesar Flickerman steps out from behind a tree and informs us that Buttercup has joined the rebel alliance, so we're not allowed to kill him._

_The absurd dream fades suddenly, as if my mind is a television and someone has changed the channel. Now I can hear the rush of water and distant rumble of subterranean rail cars, and the chemical scent is in my nostrils. I'm back in the tunnels, and I'm not alone. There are others with me, reptilian bodies twisting around corners and tongues slithering out to taste the air. We slip through the tunnels, searching, searching- there! We can sense our target, not far away. We can smell her blood. Katniss. Katniss, KatnissKatnissKatnissKa-_

"Katniss!" I spring up, accidentally knocking her flat on her back. She looks at me, bewildered, her loose hair spread around her shoulders like a curtain of dark chocolate. "Katniss! Get out of here!"

"Why?" she gasps.

"I don't know. Only that it has to kill you." I pull her roughly to her feet and shove her bow into her hands. "Run! Get out! Go!"

She loads her bow and starts unceremoniously kicking the squad awake and to their feet. "Whatever it is, it's after me. It might be a good time to split up."

"No," I say. I fist my hand in the material of her sleeve, my muscles locked so tightly I couldn't let go if I tried.

"We're your guard," someone says.

Someone else adds, "And your crew."

"I'm not leaving you," Gale says. I make a mental note to glare at him later. Right now, we need to move, and quickly.

We stumble out the door after several agonizing minutes of organizing the squad and readying weapons. _Katniss Katniss Katniss Katniss._ The order pounds in my skull as if someone has taken a jackhammer to my head. _Kill her kill her kill kill kill Katniss kill her Katniss Katniss._

Fearfully, I shove her forward, nearly making her face-plant, and then she takes off running. The squad closes ranks around us. I only hope the human shield will slow the Mutts down enough to allow her to escape.


	22. Chapter 22

We've been traveling for just a few minutes when we hear the screams.

"Avoxes. That's what Darius sounded like when they tortured him." Peeta won't let me stop, won't even let me slow down. His grip on my wrist is strong, almost to the point of pain, and he drags me along behind him with a quick pace. Our squad has closed ranks around us, weapons pointed in the direction of the ghastly hissing.

Cressida chokes out, "The mutts must have found them."

"So they're not just after Katniss."

"They'll probably kill anyone. It's just that they won't stop until they get to her." Gale's words chill me almost as much as the creatures behind us. Again, always, people are dying for me. Because of me.

I open my mouth to suggest I lead them off. Peeta's death glare stops the words in my throat. His blue eyes are locked on me with a deadly intensity. I've never seen him look so angry before, so threatening, not even when his fingers were squeezing the life out of me. I'm terrified. He's about to lunge for my throat and finish what he started when he returned from the Capitol. Peeta Mellark is about to kill me. He jerks forward. My breath shudders to a halt, frozen in crystalline spikes in my lungs, before it all rushes out in a kind of backwards gasp.

I'm crushed against the wall, my arms trapped, useless, between us. I feel his hands graze my neck and my eyes close, trapping the tears beneath the lids. Which is why I don't see the pod go off. I can only hear the crack of splitting concrete and mechanical gunfire, yells, shots from our squad, and then silence. I almost laugh in relief. Peeta wasn't trying to kill me, he was shielding me from the pod.

Before he releases me, a whisper stirs the strands of hair near my ear. "If you so much as suggest we sacrifice you, I'll go back and face the mutts myself. So, please, don't even try. Please."

Then he pulls away from the wall and starts off again. As I stumble along, half in a daze, something registers in my brain. It's quiet, but not silent. The Avox screams are gone, and in their place, the hissing has intensified. _"KatnissKatnissKatissKatnissKatniss." _Just as we come to a set of steps, I start to gag. Peeta already has his mask on, and I hastily shove mine over my mouth, though after the first lungful I know the fumes aren't harmful. Not physically, anyway. No one else is reacting to the smell, but then again, no one else is meant to. It's meant for me. Cloying, chemical-sweet roses.

We blow up two more pods before we walk right into the unmarked one. Messalla's skin melts off of his form, followed by the rest of his flesh, as he's trapped in the golden tube of light. I can't tear my eyes away from the gruesome sight, and, apparently, neither can anyone else.

"Can't help him!" Peeta shoves people's shoulders, trying to get them to move. "Can't!" The squad is jolted into action again and we dash down the corridor. We dodge pods and take down Peacekeepers and race the mutts and it all starts to blur together in a terrible, sickening whirl of blood, roses and smoke. Pollux takes the lead, taking us through a sewage tube, across a crumbling shelf above the sewers and up into a mildew-infested tunnel. It's only at this point that I realize we're missing two people.

"Wait! Where are Jackson and Leeg One?"

"They stayed at the Grinder to hold the mutts back," says Homes.

Peeta already has a firm hold on my shoulders, preventing me from doing exactly what I'm about to do: dash back into the chaos to retrieve the soldiers. "Katniss, no," he says gently, so gently, as if trying to make up for his bruising grip. "It's too late."

"No. We can't just leave them."

"Don't waste their lives, Katniss," Homes says. "Look!"

The mutts swarm out of the cramped tunnel we came from, reaching the bridge just as it collapses into the sewage. Gale strings another explosive arrow, sending the other half of the bridge down for good measure, and I'm shoved towards the ladder. I climb. I emerge into the underground street clawing at the ground with bloodied fingernails, dragging myself out of the hole like a zombie crawling out of its grave. I must look like one, too, with my disheveled hair, crimson-spattered uniform, eyes wild and skin scraped. Lying on my stomach, I yank Peeta, Cressida and Gale up off the ladder. Pollux is behind me, busy spitting out a globule of blood. His jaw is slightly crooked, as if it's been fractured.

A scream tears through the air. I shine a light down the shaft, yelling for them to climb. My eyes meet Finnick's sea green ones. And, as a mutt yanks his head back, he smiles a small, sad smile. Then he's gone. I fumble with the Holo, fingers like wood, and choke, "Nightlock, nightlock, nightlock." I hurl the thing down, and not a second later the ground underneath us ripples as it explodes. Pollux seals the pipe.

I take deep breaths. I'm too scared and too numb to cry, but I know the tears are coming. There are five of us left. Five. I swear to myself I won't let that number drop any lower. "We can't stay here."

My eyes flit over the remainder of the squad. Gale has a ragged wound on his neck. Pollux is gingerly working his jaw. Cressida's face is white and there are claw marks in her arm, but otherwise she seems unharmed. Peeta is.. crouched on the floor.

I drop to my knees so fast that I'm sure I've bruised them. "Peeta." I tug his hands away from his face. "Peeta." His whole body is shuddering nonstop. In the dim light, I can just make out his eyes, blue completely drowned out by the black.

"Leave me," he whispers. "I can't hang on."

"Yes. Yes, you can!" I say. Plead, really. I squeeze his hands.

He shakes his head. "I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them."

No. No, he won't. He can't. I won't let him. Fury and tenderness crash through me in equal parts as I cup my hands around his face and kiss him. I will not let Snow win in this way. No matter the outcome of the war, he will not win. "Don't let him take you from me," I breathe. I'm sure he can feel the warmth of the words on his lips, as we're still bumping noses.

"No." His wrists strain against the handcuffs. "I don't want to…"

"Stay with me." It's a demand, it's an order, it's a plea.

His eyes find mine and his pupils contract, then dilate. His eyes close and he leans his forehead against mine, his energy drained. "Always."

* * *

Tigris may have been considered pretty once- Capitol pretty- but her alterations have crossed the line. Her striped skin, drawn too tightly over her face, seems pale under the sickly store lights, and her eyes flash as she looks at us. Cressida steps forward. "Tigris, we need help." Tigris takes her time to respond, looking us over. Cressida nervously adds, "Plutarch said you could be trusted."

Well, even if Tigris can be trusted, which is unlikely at best, it seems as if _she_ doesn't trust _us_. She squints between us and a television in the corner. Her eyes linger on me and Peeta's entwined fingers. I make a split-second decision and pull the scarf from my face and remove my wig, and Peeta wordlessly does the same. I can tell just how tired he is by his willingness to follow my lead without question.

She recognizes us. Of course she does. With a catlike growl, she stalks into the back of the shop, behind her desk, and waves to us to follow her. I'm first in line when she reveals the steep staircase leading down into who-knows-what. I turn to her. "Did Snow ban you from the Games? Because we're going to kill him, you know." Her lips stretch in a grotesque smile and I slip into the crawl-space.

We organize ourselves as best we can. Make the discarded piles of fur into beds. Stitch up Gale's wound. Refill water bottles. Try not to think of everyone who isn't here. Busy ourselves with tasks thought up on the spot.

I lead Peeta to the faucet and he follows silently. He doesn't even protest, or seem to notice, as I remove the handcuffs. Without them, his hands are more familiar. I remember how they traced delicate shapes out of icing and painted scenes with careful detail. I remember how gentle they were as they stroked my hair or rubbed my back when I had nightmares on the train. Poor, strong hands. All this blood and war hasn't been good for them. The blisters from holding a rifle too tightly look out of place. I leave a kiss on each of them. My inadequate way of taking away the pain.

I rinse away the blood, both dried and fresh, and smooth antiseptic onto the cuts. He tries his best to hold still as I bandage them, but I can tell he's slipping. He can barely stay upright. When I'm done, I run my own hands up his arms, leaning into him.

"I'm so tired, Katniss," he murmurs.

We barely make it to our nest of fur before we collapse. I pull a large, soft pelt over us as a blanket. "Go to sleep," I whisper.

And then I follow my own advice. Curled up in the furs, tucked into Peeta's arms, the last thing I see before I drift off is the pair of handcuffs left haphazardly by the faucet.


	23. Chapter 23

**Are you guys ready for the longest chapter yet? :D**

**I hope I've gotten a good mix of plot and fluff through this story, but watch out, because this chapter gets really fluffy. ;)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

We wake up with our foreheads touching, hands folded together between us. Something feels different, and it takes me a minute to figure out what. Then I realize: my handcuffs are gone. My wrists, though sore and tightly bandaged, are unbound. Struck by the unexpected freedom, I stretch like a cat, mind still foggy from sleep. I piece together my surroundings. Katniss is curled up next to me, her head tucked under my chin, and enfolding us both is a heavy, warm, soft mass of… something. Fur?

Then I remember. The cellar under Tigris's shop. Fur.

Katniss stirs, opening her eyes in a squint before covering her face with an arm. "Mmm. Hey," she hums, punctuating her sentence with a yawn.

"Morning, Kitty-Kat."

Beneath her arm, I see the corners of her lips quirk up, then quickly turn down in a pretend-grimace. "You're really going to hold on to that, are you?"

"Why not?"

She gives an impatient huff.

I realize something. "No nightmares," I say. Not for me, and, unless I slept through it, not for her.

"No," she agrees. "I did have a dream, though."

"About what?"

"Um… Effie." She sits up, pulling me along with her, and stretches. "It was bizarre."

"If you two lovebirds are quite done cuddling," someone says loudly. "We're trying to sleep, here." Katniss slouches, hiding her blush behind a hand. Cressida, the one who spoke, raises an eyebrow at us. It doesn't look like she's trying to sleep- she's leaning against a wall with a can of soup in her hand. "It's late afternoon," she says, more quietly this time. "Everyone else is still out."

We eat breakfast- lunch? dinner? – and take turns washing our hands and faces at the faucet. Katniss tucks the handcuffs away in her pocket, with the key and the pearl. After a moment, she takes out the small, iridescent bead. It rolls around cheerfully in her palm, casting a tiny, round reflection of milky light on her skin. "I used to carry this around with me," she says suddenly. "In Thirteen. Before you were rescued."

Looking at that little, insignificant orb, I find myself slipping into a memory. My wrists automatically jerk apart, but without any handcuffs to dig into my skin and ground me, it's too late.

* * *

_The smell of salt and the chirr of some insect in the jungle. Waves hissing on sand. _

_"Katniss. It's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do. I don't know what kind of deal you think you've made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promises as well." I must choose my words carefully. Everything has to go exactly right, or all my efforts since the Quell was announced are wasted. "So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us."_

_She stiffens, her lips pressing into a hard line. I hold my breath as she delays. "Why are you saying this now?"_

_I let out my breath. So far, so good. But I still must tread carefully, carefully… If she sees what I'm doing too early, her walls will go up and that'll be the end of it. "Because I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstances are. If you die, and I live, there's no real life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life. I would never be happy again." She opens her mouth, but I go on. "I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are people who'd make your life worth living." _

_Gale. She can be happy with Gale. I know. I knew even before I saw them asleep at the kitchen table, hands linked. They can hunt in the woods and have a life in District Twelve. And she'd always have Prim, and her mother. I pull the locket off my neck and open it. It's a cruel blow, showing her the faces of the people she loves most in the world, especially after the jabberjays. But I'm desperate. _

_"Your family needs you, Katniss. No one really needs me."_

_It's working. I can see in her eyes that I've broken her, and it hurts more than any terror I've experienced in the arena. One tear runs down her cheek, but apparently she doesn't notice, because she doesn't move to wipe it away. Then she turns to me, and my heart sinks. Something in her expression tells me that I won't like what she's about to say._

_"I do." Her silver eyes peer deep into my own, as if she's digging straight to the core of my soul. "I need you."_

_No, no, no! This isn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to agree with me and help me keep _her_ alive, not go and tell me that… that… _"I need you." _She needs me. What does that mean? Does she… could she…_

_I start to talk again, desperately trying to think of a way to convince her, but she won't let me. Her lips press to mine, silencing any argument I could have made._

* * *

A real pair of lips brings me back to the present. Katniss gently pries open my fingers, running her thumb over the place where my fingernails have cut into my skin. "Sorry," I mumble.

"It's all right. It wasn't a bad one."

I take a minute to organize my thoughts. "On the beach, you told me you needed me. Real or not real?"

"Real."

I nod. That felt real. Nothing shiny about that. But there's one more thing I need to know, and I'm not sure if I have the courage to ask. "And… you kissed me."

"Real." She nervously plays with the end of her braid. "It was mostly to shut you up, actually."

"Thanks," I say dryly.

She realizes she's said something wrong and rushes to take it back, but I shush her. "It's okay. I know." I look her over, worry pinching my eyebrows together. "What did I do?"

"Nothing, really. You just stared off into space for a while."

"I was remembering the beach."

"Me, too." She chews on her bottom lip, her eyes distant. Then she looks at me, lowering her voice. "Peeta… all those people yesterday… Finnick and Castor and Messalla and _everyone_… It's my fault."

"No."

"It is. If it wasn't for this idiotic fake mission-"

"No, Katniss. You didn't kill them."

"I may as well have!" She drops her face into her hands. "It's my fault they died. If I hadn't taken them all with me they'd be alive right now."

"And you might be dead," I point out. "And don't you dare say that would be better."

She's silent for a while, tracing the contours of the silver boots from the Capitol lady's closet. At last she murmurs, "I need to tell them."

"Tell them what?"

"That this mission to kill Snow is a fake."

I sigh. First she tells a bunch of shaky lies and nearly gets us both killed, and now she wants to tell a roomful of armed soldiers that we deceived them. But what else can I do except go along with her? She's too headstrong to be stopped. When disagreeing with Katniss, it's either get ignored or get steamrolled. "Okay," I say wearily. "Just don't blame me if they shoot us both."

So, as soon as the other two wake, Katniss confesses. She's blunt and to the point, keeping the details out. Every so often, I jump in with a placating comment or subtle nod. When she's done, everyone sits without talking.

"Katniss," Gale says, and I suddenly remember my mental note from earlier to glare at him. I do. "We all knew you were lying about Coin sending you to assassinate Snow."

"You knew, maybe. The soldiers from Thirteen didn't."

Wait, Gale knew? Why was he let in on the plan and I wasn't? Jealously buzzes through me for an instant, before I'm distracted by Cressida's voice.

"Do you really think Jackson believed you had orders from Coin? Of course she didn't. But she trusted Boggs, and he'd clearly wanted you to go on."

"I never even told Boggs what I planned to do," Katniss says miserably. She's twisting around one of the tassels on her silver boots, the cords stretched so tightly they look ready to snap. Just like all of us.

Gale explodes. "You told everyone in Command! It was one of your conditions for being Mockingjay. '_I kill Snow.'_ That and rescuing Baker Boy over here," he finishes almost sullenly.

Katniss opens and closes her mouth, eyes narrowing. "But not like this," she says at last. "It's been a complete disaster."

"I think it would be considered a highly successful mission," Gale says superiorly brushing some invisible dust off his uniform. "We've infiltrated the enemy camp, showing that the Capitol's defenses can be breached. We've managed to get footage of ourselves all over the Capitol news. We've thrown the whole city into chaos trying to find us."

Cressida adds, "Trust me, Plutarch's thrilled."

"That's because Plutarch only cares about his Games," Katniss and I mutter at the same time. She goes on, "We're all just pawns to him."

This pushes another memory to the forefront of my mind, but I try to suppress it. I can't be distracted now. Something about a roof… at night…

"What do you think, Peeta?" Katniss asks, driving away my thoughts like a pile of leaves in a gust of wind.

I look at her. "I think…" I can't help it- yet another memory, one from the train, is fighting for my attention and won't be ignored. "You still have no idea. The effect you can have. None of the people we lost were idiots." She winces and I drag her chin up with a finger. "They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow. They believed in you. And so do I."

She tips her head to press her jaw into my hand, contemplating my words. Her eyes flicker from one face to another. Then she sits up resolutely, that fire back in her eyes, and gets out a map. "Where are we, Cressida?"

The team can't agree on a course of action. Cressida wants to go underground again, but Pollux, obviously, doesn't. Gale wants to get back in disguises and head for Snow's mansion immediately, while Katniss wants to stay put and do some more research first. By the time Tigris calls us up for some dinner, my head aches and it seems as if everyone has a sore throat. We watch the Capitol propaganda mutely. It seems as if the rebels are content to let the broadcast go uninterrupted, for now.

"I doubt Coin knows what to do with me now that I'm still alive," Katniss says through a mouthful of dry bread.

Tigris chuckles at the same time I do. "No one knows what to do with you, girlie." She fishes in one of the racks of furs and pulls out a pair of grey leggings, which she then offers to Katniss. Katniss takes them dubiously, offers Tigris a smile, and goes off to the restroom to put them on. I smile cheekily at her when she comes back.

"Warmer now?"

She shoves me, blushing scarlet.

Too tired and too discouraged to do anything else, the squad settles down to sleep again. Katniss and I whisper to each other quietly, buried under a large pile of furs in the corner, while we listen to the others sleep. With her boots off, I can feel the soft fur leggings brush against my ankles. Eventually, she drops off almost mid-sentence. I lie there, just listening to the even breaths that fill the room. Everyone else is asleep, it seems. Pipes rush and clank in the walls, and if I listen hard enough and lie very still, I can just barely hear the far-off traffic of the Capitol streets outside the shop.

After a while- I'm not sure how long exactly- my throat starts to scratch when I breathe in. It's dusty down here, and I've done a lot of talking today. I maneuver out of Katniss's grasp, tucking the furs in around her, and tiptoe in the direction of the faucet. Someone's already there, though in the dark I can't tell who.

"Hey," Gale says.

"Hey," I reply, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Gale and I aren't exactly friends, though I see no good reason for us to be enemies, either. I may as well be civil.

"Here." He holds out a cup. "I haven't drank out of it yet, so it's safe."

I take a sip as he fills another cup for himself. The faucet knob squeals in protest and the water flow cuts off. I decide to break the silence before things get too awkward.

"Thanks for the water."

"No problem. I wake up ten times a night anyway."

"To make sure Katniss is still here?" I ask. She does have a tendency to wander, as I observed in Thirteen.

He tenses. "Something like that."

I take another sip, casting around for a change in topic. "That was funny," I say. "What Tigris said. About no one knowing what to do with her."

"Well, _we_ never have."

It's so unexpected, the completely true, matter-of-fact statement, that I laugh. He does, too, after a moment.

"She loves you, you know," I say quietly. And I mean it. I can tell there's a connection between the two of them, and after the memory I relived this afternoon, it seems even more obvious. "She as good as told me after they whipped you."

He waves it off. "Don't believe it. The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell… well, she never kissed me like that."

It takes me a minute to understand. Then I get it, and I almost want to punch him. _Not like that!_ my mind screams. _She doesn't love you like that! Does she?_ I can't tell if it's me or Mutt-Peeta that spoke the thought. It's angry and real enough to be both. I realize I haven't replied, and hurry to say, "It was just part of the show."

"No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that's the only way to convince her you love her." He raises his own cup to his lips, then continues, "I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games. Protected her then."

"You couldn't. She'd never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family…" I think of little Prim, the sweet girl who always treated me nicely, even when I was a feral, belligerent mess of a creature. "They matter more to her than her life."

Gale stands up and starts to move away. "Well, it won't be an issue much longer. I think it's unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss's problem. Who to choose."

_But she chose me,_ I think.

"We should get some sleep."

"Yeah," I agree dully. I pick my way back to the corner, taking care not to tread on anyone. One last question comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. Again, I can't tell if the words are from me or not. "I wonder how she'll make up her mind."

"Oh, that I do know. Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without."

I stop moving. "Whoever she… That's a little harsh, don't you think?"

"That's Katniss," he says confidently.

_No,_ I think. _Maybe that _was_ Katniss. But she's different now. Things have been hard on her. She's not as strong as she was before. _

I purposely lower my voice to a dangerous level, imitating myself when I have an episode. "Are you sure?"

This stops him in his tracks, but I don't stick around long enough to watch the rest of his reaction. I burrow under the furs, reclaim my place beside Katniss and cover myself head-to-toe in the thick, musty pelts. Maybe that was a little uncalled for, but I don't care. Katniss is different now. So am I. But I won't just stand by while she's being insulted. That's one thing of us, at least, that hasn't changed. We protect each other.


	24. Chapter 24

Tigris is gone for a long time. And it seems even longer than it really is, locked up in the cool, stuffy cellar. We've eaten nearly all of our food, so naturally the only things left are the things nobody really wants. Liver pâté, figs, frog legs, canned beets and spam. I'm not hungry, anyway. That is, I am hungry, I just don't feel like eating. It seems as if my whole life is like that at the moment- contradiction after contradiction. I feel cramped and confined, but all too exposed in the little Capitol cellar. I want to run all the way to Snow's mansion, and I want to curl up in a ball under a pile of furs and refuse to come out until the war is over. I don't want to think about what I overheard last night, but my mind can't seem to help going over it time and time again. The words play in my head on a loop.

_"Well, it won't be an issue much longer. I think it's unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss's problem. Who to choose."_

Who to choose. Peeta or Gale. Who to choose.

_"I wonder how she'll make up her mind."_

_"Oh, that I do know. Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without."_

My blood boils and goes cold at the same time- another contradiction- every time I think of this. I'll pick whoever I _think_ I can't survive without, apparently. My choice won't be based on any kind of emotion, not even a sense of debt, just a cold calculation of what each of them has to offer me. I pause in my pacing, fists trembling in anger.

But then…

_"That's a little harsh, don't you think?"_

Peeta stood up for me. No matter how I look at it, no matter how many times I replay it in my head, that fact is irrefutable.

_"That's Katniss."_

So confident. As if I couldn't possibly be anything else. That's me. The clinical, unfeeling assessment of my love life is _me_.

_"Are you sure?"_

What did Peeta mean by that? Was Gale sure… what? That I would choose who I couldn't survive without? But then, if that's what he meant, why not just say it? Why speak in riddles? That was the last thing he said. After that, I just remember Peeta settling back beside me and the furs being tucked snugly around us. At the time, the conversation didn't really register. I was too exhausted to think about it too much, except to notice how strange it was to hear the two of them talking. As soon as I woke up, though, the whole thing clicked, and I've been pacing ever since.

On my next turn, a pair of hands gently grips mine. Peeta pulls me to a halt, folding my own small, shaking hands in his large ones. He quirks his eyebrows at me in an expression of confusion and concern, and it's so like him that a little smile flits across my lips.

"What's wrong, Kitty Kat?" he asks without preamble.

I avoid his eyes.

"Come on." He moves into my line of vision. "Tell me."

"It's not important," I sigh.

"Katniss. You don't worry about things that aren't important."

He's got me there. I'm not someone to fret over a torn seam or a lost coin, even though, where I come from, every stitch and every cent counts. I just do what I can and move on.

I haven't answered him yet, and he's getting impatient. "Are you going to tell me?"

"Maybe. I don't know." I have to work to keep my gaze away from Gale, who's sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, pouring over a map. I can just make out his dark hair in my periphery vision.

In spite of Gale and everyone else in the room, Peeta tips my chin up with two fingers and kisses me. "Now will you tell me?"

"Maybe," I say again.

Another kiss.

"Now?"

I sigh and scuff my heel on the cement floor. I do want to tell Peeta, but not with… everyone… around. "Later, okay? I don't really feel up for talking now." I hope he understands what I mean.

A mischievous glint comes into his eye. "Don't feel up for talking, huh?" He sits down on our pile of furs, pulling me with him. "What do you feel up for, then?"

I shrug. "I don't-"

I can't finish my sentence, because then he's sliding his fingers up my arms, over my shoulders, over my neck and into my hair. He pulls me onto his lap. "Feel up for this?"

In answer, I wrap my arm around his neck. We don't kiss again, not in front of the others, but we cuddle, listen to each others' heart beats and take comfort in the knowledge that, for now, we're both alive.

* * *

When Tigris finally returns, she brings hot food with her. The ham and potato hash, while simple, tastes infinitely better than any delicacy I ever had in the Capitol. I force myself to go slow, trying to savor each bite before swallowing.

As we eat, we watch the television screen, where a stern reporter is trying to convince her audience to take in refugees. "We must all stay strong together in this time of crisis," she says in her ridiculous accent. "Everyone will be expected to welcome the guests that have been assigned to them."

It cuts to the head peacekeeper, who stands on a street swarming with refugees. "President Snow himself has set aside a wing of his mansion for his own guests," he says.

I wonder briefly if that could be a way to get to Snow. Pretend to be a refugee and sneak in under the radar. I file the idea away for later.

"Furthermore, shopkeepers should take note that they, too, may be asked to lend their space to guests, and should be ready if that is the case."

Peeta frowns. "Tigris, that could be you."

Onscreen, a platinum-blonde youth's picture is shown. The head peacekeeper informs us that he was beaten to death when a crowd mistook him for Peeta. I stare at the screen numbly. If Tigris could be having guests, that means we have to leave, and soon. I'm more nervous than I was before my first interview with Caesar. Everyone jumps as I spring to my feet. "Let me wash the dishes."

Gale follows me. "I'll give you a hand."

I feel Peeta's eyes on us as we walk out of the room, but he stays put. The hot water scalds my hands and sends up a cloud of steam as we start to scrub. I feel trapped in the tiny, humid kitchen, and altogether too close to Gale. I'm still mad at him.

"Do you think it's true?" I ask, to break the silence. "That Snow will let refugees into the mansion?"

"I think he has to now, at least for the cameras." I analyze his tone of voice. It's not relaxed, exactly, but then no one is relaxed right now. It could just be the general stress of the situation.

I don't know what else to say, and after a few attempts at coming up with a topic, I give up. I don't really want to talk to him, anyway. I'm scrubbing a plate a bit more vigorously than plates necessarily need to be scrubbed when Gale stops my hands with his own.

"Katniss," he says. "I can tell something is wrong."

I pull away, yanking my soap-slippery hands out of his grasp. "No, really? We're trapped in the middle of the Capitol with no good plan for how to continue, our food is running out, people are being bludgeoned to death on the streets, more than half of our squad is dead, we're going to have to leave soon, maybe even tomorrow, and… and…" I'm wringing my hands by now, water and bubbles running down my arms to my elbows. I refuse to cry. It's just the heat of the water that's making my face red.

"Hey," Gale murmurs, reaching for me.

I snarl. "What?"

"It's okay. Katniss, it's okay. Just calm down. Everything's fine."

"No, it's not!" I shriek, not even worried about who might overhear. "Nothing is okay! And if you think that it is, you're kidding yourself." I push past him, forsaking the dishes. But, as I squeeze into the cramped hallway, I can't help throwing one last spiteful jab over my shoulder. "I can survive just fine without you."

Instead of going back to the T.V. and facing everyone who doubtless just heard every word of our one-sided argument, I slip through the hidden door and down the steep cellar stairs. I bury myself in my nest of furs with my back to a corner, like I've been longing to do all day. It should feel safe. It doesn't.

By the time I decide to grow up and rejoin the others, they're already coming down the stairs.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Cressida says. "That's all we've decided."

We settle down in a circle, all facing a map someone has laid out. I study the green and red lines that represent the opposing armies, avoiding everyone's eyes. "We shouldn't go all at once. Just one of us out there is dangerous. All of us together would be suicidal."

"I agree. Groups of two, do you think?"

"Then someone would be left by themselves."

"I'll do it," Peeta volunteers.

"No," comes out of my mouth before anyone else can speak. "Just… no. We'll go in two groups of three and two."

Peeta doesn't back down. He argues that he could be a diversion, if need be, and follow one of the other groups at a distance. "That way, it would really be a group of three, just split up," he says. "If something happened, I could do something. You saw what happened to that man who looked like me."

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be on your own," I counter.

"I won't be. It'll be a group of three, remember?"

"That's not a group of three, Peeta. That's two people and one corpse."

Neither of us is willing to give in, and we go in circles for what feels like hours before Cressida finally stops us. "Oh, just go with the girl, already," she snaps, directing her words at Peeta. "If you need to cause a disturbance, fine. You can split from the group if and when the need arises. But until then, you two can stick together. All right?"

Grudgingly, we agree.

After the worst night of sleep I've ever had and a collection of odd leftover foods for breakfast, Tigris carefully re-applies all of our makeup and arranges our clothes to better hide our faces and weapons. We're all so high-strung that the hours fly by in about a second each, and all too soon we're clustered around the door.

Cressida and Pollux leave first.

I watch them merge into the crowd, easily vanishing. The trees into the forest. Then Gale nods to me and Tigris opens the door. Our turn. I step closer to Peeta, hiding our intertwined fingers under the layers of coats and scarves and mufflers. In a whirl of tiny, stinging snowflakes, all three of us step outside.


	25. Chapter 25

**Warning: sad part coming up. :'( Brace yourselves.**

**I know I haven't done Peeta's POV for a couple chapters, but there's gonna be one more Katniss. This scene just works better in her POV. Sorry. :) I promise the next one will be Peeta.**

**Enjoy!**

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Gunshots rattle from roofs. People fall in the streets, tripping over one another or crumpling under the rain of bullets. We dodge into an alley along with a frantic couple in neon-pink, leopard-spotted coats. The gunfire continues, and it's only after we emerge again, craning our necks to locate Pollux and Cressida, that I realize it's the rebels that are firing. Here and there, a Peacekeeper goes down, but it's obvious they're not being too selective about who they hit. And with us all dressed up as we are, we're just three more Capitol citizens, fleeing through the streets along with everyone else. Any one of us could be shot. When we finally catch a glimpse of Pollux and Cressida, I'm momentarily relieved. They're still alive, at least.

Gale takes down a Peacekeeper by knocking him in the head, and uses his gun to take down two more. Now we all have weapons. I empty half of my bullets in an intersection choked with steam and snowflakes, and the rest on a pod that twists this way and that, shooting out little clumps of shrapnel coated in caustic, blue fluid. So, when the ground beneath us starts to tip, I don't hesitate in dropping my gun and sprinting for one of the side streets.

Peeta is right behind me. I can tell, because his fingers are still locked onto mine, sweaty and shaking but there, alive, pulse drumming through them. My boots slip on the pavement as it tips at an ever-increasing angle, until I'm running up a hill, up a wall. I take one desperate lunge and hook my left elbow around a lamp post not a foot from the black pit the intersection has morphed into. Then I hear a pop and pain slices through my right shoulder, shooting down my arm. I almost let go. My vision blurs for a moment, narrowing in on the cheery, colorful tiles in front of me. My arm has gone numb; my shoulder and upper back are being pierced by hundreds of white-hot knives.

A scream from below jolts me back to my senses. I twist my head around, heart in my throat, but it's not Peeta. He's still hanging onto my hand, though I can't feel his grip. Gale's location, on the other hand, is a mystery. I have to fight to keep my gaze out of the pit, in case I recognize one of the bodies. And then I spot him, hanging from a doorknob three houses down. He sees me, too.

"Gale!" I cry. "Gale!"

He's kicking the door, trying to get it to open, but it won't budge. Neither of my hands are free to do anything, and even if they were, I don't have an accessible weapon. Suddenly, the door flies open and I see Gale land on a heap in the entryway. I'm confused, until the white-clad hands drag him into the house and the door slams shut again. Peacekeepers. Just as quickly as he escaped the pit, Gale has become a prisoner.

"Grab the edge," I exhale, and it comes out as a sort of sob. I couldn't save Gale, but I can save Peeta. I have to. I swing my whole body, since I've completely lost control of my injured limb, and he uses one hand to catch the ledge. With the other, he clutches the same lamppost I'm dangling from. I let my head fall to the pavement. Take deep breaths. Tell myself it's almost over. Then I drag myself onto solid ground, and Peeta follows me. For a long time, we kneel at the edge, trembling, holding each other. People run past us, skirting around the corner of the trap, but no one bothers with us. After all, right now we are no longer the girl and boy on fire. We are no longer the star-crossed lovers, victors, tributes, not even the children of District Twelve. Now we're just two more citizens, scared and dirty and in pain.

It's a shade lighter when we lift our heads again. Either the sun has fully come up or the steam is dispersing. The stream of people is thinning. We need to get a move on. We silently help each other to our feet and stumble away. Peeta just seems to have noticed my arm.

"Katniss," he gasps. "Your shoulder. It's all… Oh, my God, I'm sorry. If you didn't have to catch me, it wouldn't have…"

"It wasn't you," I tell him, though in all honesty I don't remember exactly how it happened. Everything was a blur after the road started to tip. "I think it's dislocated. Just… pop it back in, if you can."

I brace myself on a fence, gritting my teeth. A traitor shriek escapes me when Peeta pushes and my arm resets itself, and he pulls me to him once again, apologizing over and over. The stabbing in my muscles fades to a persistent ache, still painful but not nearly as bad as it was. A few moments pass, and I feel a pair of eyes on me. I look up to find myself almost face-to-face with someone behind the glass of a storefront. The woman's eyes dart from me to Peeta, recognition igniting on her face. I wheel around, pulling him with me, and dash for the nearest secluded spot. Skidding to a stop behind a hedge, I pant, "Someone saw us."

"I know. Katniss, I think we need to split up."

I look at him in panic.

"It's like I said in the cellar, the two of us is bad enough, but the two of us _together_... Of course she recognized us. It's a wonder no one else has. Look. I'm not saying we should separate entirely. We'll just put a block or so between us and keep heading for the mansion."

"That was the plan with Cressida and Pollux," I waver, "And look how well that worked out!"

He looks over my head, at the chaos all around us. "Do we have a choice, really?"

No. We don't. It's split up or be seen again. The closer we get to the mansion, the more the odds of our capture increase. If we want to have any chance at all, we need to blend in, and that means being apart. "Okay," I whisper. We step out from behind the hedge, and then it's the Quell all over again- I'm leaving Peeta, going off to fight the final battle. He crushes me in his hug.

"Be careful," I choke.

"You be careful," he counters, pecking me on the lips. "I'll be right behind you."

I pull my hood over my eyes, take a deep breath, and set off without looking back. _He's right behind me,_ I remind myself. _Just a couple yards. If anything happens, he'll be right there._

I keep this in mind as I trail after two elderly gentlemen sporting lizard skin hats, playing the part of a scared granddaughter. I scoop up a matching crocodile skin purse from the ground to help the image. They're heading for the president's mansion, and it isn't long before we get there. I dare to glance over my shoulder, letting out the breath I was holding when I see Peeta weaving through the crowd behind me, as he promised.

Across the City Circle, past shivering bodies and forgotten bags, is a concrete barrier, and behind it is a wall of children. I slow my pace, bewildered. Why are there children all lined up in front of the mansion? But then, as I get even closer, I understand. The children are there as a buffer. The rebels, unlike the Capitol, have some morals. They won't kill a yardful of kids to get to Snow. Peacekeepers guard the barriers, ensuring no one leaves.

I almost run right into a flagpole, I'm so distracted by the scene. It gives me an idea. Using my good arm and bracing my boots against the frosted metal, I pull myself up until I can easily see above every head in the Circle. The children wander in disoriented, wobbly circles, bumping into each other every so often. Then, as silently as it did that day in the forest when Lavinia was captured, a hovercraft appears above them. Parachutes drop and are eagerly scooped up by little hands. I watch them, a hint of apprehension wriggling in my gut. This doesn't feel right.

The parachutes explode. A fiery wind surges past me and I let go of the flag pole, landing heavily on my back. While I struggle to breathe, I think, _Why? Why?_ Medics race past, rebel medics, and I crawl a few feet before standing unsteadily.

It's the duck tail that alerts me of her presence. Prim. Prim! My feet take off, body and soul focused on one thing: reach my little sister. I hear my name shouted behind me, but I don't stop, can't stop. I'm nearing the barrier. I scream.

"Prim!" She doesn't turn around, too busy attending to some child to hear me. "Prim!"

"Katniss!"

I'm scrambling up onto the barrier, and that gives my pursuer the opportunity to catch up to me. Arms lock around my waist, yanking me back. I screech and flail, eyes still locked on the blonde braid.

"Prim!"

"No, Katniss!" It's Peeta. His voice is enough to break through to me, but not enough to stop my attempts at getting to her. "Katniss! We have to get away, we have to-"

He never gets the chance to finish. Prim turns, it seems in slow motion, and her eyes find mine. Then a wave of fire swells from behind her, blasting her off her feet. I have one second of shock, pain beyond pain, before it reaches us. We both hit the ground at the same time, limbs tangled together, eyes instinctively closed against the inferno. I howl my little sister's name into Peeta's shoulder before the world goes black.


	26. Chapter 26

Closing my eyes doesn't help. Fire burns brighter in darkness.

Time is impossible to keep track of. Doctors come in and administer more morphling. Nurses bring trays of soft, tasteless food. The lights never turn off and the clock in the corner, behind my head, ticks infuriatingly. I'm not allowed to crane my neck enough to see it. My new skin- _our _new skin- will take time to heal. I hear this every day. Visitors congratulate me on surviving, offer condolences for deaths that don't make sense and make comments on how nicely we're both healing. I do my best to smile, carefully, so as not to stretch the burnt skin by my ear too tightly, and answer with short sentences. But I ask no questions about my health, the war, Snow or the other members of the Star Squad. The only things I want to know are about Katniss, and no one will give me sufficient answers.

"Her skin is healing well," one doctor says, but I can tell his cheerfulness is strained.

"I'd like to see her."

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a while. You're both too fragile for that, now. Would you like some more water?"

Another one, younger than the first, isn't as good at evading my questions. "Oh," she says uncomfortably. "She's, um, resting. Fine. Resting."

"Has she had visitors?"

"Some yes," she admits. She smoothes down the already smooth corners of my blankets. "Not many."

"But her mother and sister go to see her."

The young doctor looks up suddenly, and I see real pain in her eyes. She wrings her hands. "No one told you?" she says quietly, then momentarily closes her eyes when I shake my head. "Miss Everdeen's little sister… Primrose… she was killed in the bombing."

I can't speak. Sweet Prim? I thought she might be in the City Center, because I saw her just prior to pulling Katniss away, but when no word of her arrived I assumed it was just my mind playing tricks on me. I was half in an episode at the time, trying to pull Katniss away from an imagined danger. Little did I know, I was also pulling her away from the very real danger of the parachute bombs. That must be why everyone is so skittish about telling me about her.

"I need to see her," I demand, staring the doctor down. "Now."

"I'm afraid-" she starts, but I cut her off with a shout that stings my throat.

"I don't care about my skin! I'm going to see her whether you give me permission or not!"

The doctor shies away like a nervous pony, the white hem of her jacket swishing around the doorway as she bolts from the room. Moments later, a fleet of doctors pours through the door, brandishing clipboards and needles. One pleads for me to stay still while another hovers beside me, obviously wanting to hold me down but unwilling to touch me. I don't care. I yell and writhe on the paper-laid hospital bed until a cold liquid seeps through the IV in the crook of my elbow.

When I wake up, my head doctor is sitting in the chair beside my bed. He frowns at me, brow pinching, above his round glasses. "I thought they were getting better, Peeta," he says, sounding disappointed. "You told me they were. You said they were no longer as violent as they used to be."

I swipe the cup of water off the table at my side. "That wasn't an episode. That was just me."

He surveys me with a look I can't discern until I finally doze off into another uneasy sleep. I wake up to someone pulling apart the Velcro straps at my arms and around my waist. Haymitch.

"Follow me," he says gruffly.

I obey silently. My one bare foot pads on the cool, linoleum floor, much too quiet compared to every other footstep, which clanks like the gears in a machine. The heat of the fire damaged something in my fake leg, too. The doctors have promised they'll fix it soon, but this is the first time I've really noticed the effects.

Haymitch leads me out of the improvised hospital wing of the mansion, onto another floor, where rows of dark wood doors and carpet suggest a living place. Cards with blocky, computer-style numbers hang above doorknobs. I watch them slide past on one side of the hallway, overwhelmed by a sudden sense of vertigo. 203, 201, 199, 197. It seems as if I'm standing still, and the hallway is moving past me. The multiple drugs in my system can have this effect, sometimes. We stop in front of 191, and Haymitch knocks. There's no answer, but this doesn't seem to surprise him. He opens the door and beckons for me to follow. As I pass through the doorway, I read a smaller line of text underneath the numbers: _Everdeen. Two._

It appears as if no one's home. I feel awkward in the little room, which is strewn with Capitol frippery. The two beds are draped with lilac ruffles and the walls are pattered with some kind of bird. A delicate brush and comb set lie on the dresser, collecting a thin film of dust. Obviously, not much was done to alter the rooms before people were assigned to them.

"She'll be back here," Haymtich says abruptly. "She wanders. But she usually comes back. Just wait a while."

As he turns to leave, I utter my first words since I spoke to my psychiatrist. "Did they approve this?"

He stops with the door half open, his Seam eyes fixed on me. "No."

"Thank you."

"Take care of her," he mutters, then shuts the door.

It's strange, how all of my conversations now are so short. I suppose, after the war, after the Hijacking, after the Games, after _everything_, there's no need to play word games anymore. It's over. Why make things complicated, when the simple truth is already so painful and twisted?

I sit on the smaller of the two beds as I wait. The soft fabric feels alien against my skin grafts, so used to sterile paper and thin sheets. The only light in the room comes from around the edges of a small, round window in the corner. Someone has drawn heavy, black curtains over it. The light purple walls seem even hazier in the dim light. The birds seem almost to stir, feathers rustling. The color reminds me of the drowsy clouds that morphling brings. The rustling fades into a rhythmic, rushing beat. I scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands, not sure if I'm hallucinating or not.

I jump right off the mattress when the door opens. So, it wasn't the birds, after all. It was footsteps. A slight figure is silhouetted in the doorway. Katniss. And not Katniss. She's as skinny as she was after our first Games, her hair is chopped off in uneven chunks ranging from just below her ears to shoulder-length, and she moves slowly, like an old woman. Like me, I realize. Trying not to put any pressure on the seams where skin meets skin. She doesn't see me right away, but drifts into the room without turning on the light. When I stand up, she freezes as if an electrical shock has gone through her. In the low light, I see her eyes grow large, pupils dilated so that only a sliver of star-bright silver can be seen.

I reach for her before she can move. She's stiff as a board. "Just me," I whisper. Again, always, simple. The minimum amount of words required to convey a message.

She looks up at me with those liquid deer eyes, muscles relaxing ever so slowly. Then she exhales and falls against me. I hold her gently, not because I'm afraid of damaging her skin grafts, but because I'm afraid she might break in more ways than one under too tight a grip. If her new skin is adapting as well as mine, it won't tear under something as harmless as an embrace, but that's not what I'm worried about.

She cries without making a sound, and I bury my face in her neck. We end up, somehow, on the ruffled bed, clinging to each other. I whisper meaningless comforts to her without thinking. She says nothing.

"Will you talk?" I ask quietly.

She shakes her head.

I run my thumb along the edge of a scar on her wrist. "Okay." And leave it at that.

After a time, I retrieve the little silver brush from the dresser and work through the tangles in her hair. It's as thick as I remember, though curled haphazardly in unequal strands. Katniss sits still and doesn't say a word. I'm reminded strongly of Lavinia, the Avox I watched die in the Capitol. My fist curls around the handle of the brush, but I just don't have the energy for a real flashback. The momentary confusion leaves me drained, and I drop the brush. The thump it makes causes Katniss to jump and flinch into me, instinctually seeking safety. I oblige by wrapping my arms around her, tucking her head against my shoulder and leaning back against the wall. I've already slept today, but I find myself slipping away anyway.

Before I fall asleep, I notice something. In the mirror above the dresser, I can make out the lines of our scars. In this position- the same position we unintentionally assumed just before the bombs went off- our burns match up perfectly. Where our chests and sides touch, our skin is smooth and unharmed. Our faces were protected from the flames by each others' shoulders. Two jagged puzzle pieces. Together, we make up one whole, broken person.


	27. Chapter 27

**Sad news, guys: the next chapter might be the last chapter of this story. :( But, also :) because it means we're almost done! Hoorah!**

**Thank you all so much for sticking with me (And Katniss, and Peeta) through all this. You've been so patient, even when I was a bad person and didn't update for weeks at a time. (So sorry!) But we're almost done, and I really hope these last chapters will be worth the wait. **

**Since it's nearing the end of the story, if you haven't reviewed before, please do! They're much appreciated. :) **

**One more little note: this chapter, while (hopefully) cohesive either way, will make a bunch more sense if you've read the book.**

**As always, enjoy.**

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Everyone assumes me to be a "mental Avox". That's not entirely true. I did speak, once, when I saw President Snow. Four words. "I don't believe you."

His response- wet, rasping laughter, his lips dripping red. "Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other."

I don't count my failed attempt at seeking Haymitch's help. After all, though I did speak, nothing came of it. So it doesn't count. Only those four words do.

_I don't believe you._

I'm silent as my prep team arranges what's left of my hair and cakes makeup on my face to try to cover the worst of the scars there. They look queasy enough just dealing with the one bit of healing flesh on the side of my face- the one bit Peeta's shoulder didn't protect- so I don't bother telling them it's much worse everywhere else. Still silent. They help me into my Mockingjay suit. I gaze into my own eyes, wondering at how my reflection can be so normal. They are empty and haunted. Almost drained of color. Slush grey. I remember what Peeta said the other day, during one of my panic attacks, as he murmured to me.

"Come on, Kitty Kat. Open your eyes. Let me see them. You know, your eyes are really amazing. They change color, depending on your mood, and the light… They get darker when you're angry, like storm clouds. And when you're happy, they shine like silver. Come on. Open them. There they are... You're okay. I've got you."

I wonder what I'm feeling now, according to my eyes. Empty eyes, empty emotions. I couldn't feel anything right now if I tried. It's one of those days.

Gale startles me by appearing at my shoulder. I didn't even see him come in. He has his poker face on, but I can tell he's upset about something. Me, perhaps?

"I brought you this," he says.

I take the bow and arrows- arrow- he gives me.

"It's supposed to be symbolic. You firing the last shot of the war."

I arch an eyebrow, wondering what will happen if I miss, but I don't voice my concerns. Still silent. _I don't believe you_. The words bang around inside my skull, demanding my attention, and I give my head a little shake in the hopes of dislodging them. Gale misinterprets the movement for a refusal, and frowns.

"No? No what?"

I growl and shove the quiver over my head, not bothering to explain. The one arrow rattles forlornly, missing its brothers.

There's a long silence, which grows more awkward by the second, until finally Gale turns to leave. I do have something to say, though, despite my unwilling voice.

"Was it your bomb?"

He turns in surprise, his poker face wavering. "I don't know. Neither does Beetee. Does it matter? You'll always be thinking about it." I'm an Avox again. Gale goes on. "That was the one thing I had going for me. Taking care of your family." He opens the door, his gait dejected. "Shoot straight, okay?"

I guess I was wrong. I can feel something. It's just as bad as emptiness, I decide. Worse.

Effie wobbles in on shiny, black leather high-heels, an equally wobbly pile of metallic gold curls on her head. Her dress is tiger-striped gold and black, to match both her shoes and her wig, I guess. As I appraise her outfit, she chirps about a meeting. She could be straight out of the past. She could have just stepped off the train that took us to our first games. _It's odd, _I think as I go to retrieve the white rose waiting for me on the counter. _We all look so much like we did a year ago… But I don't think a single one of us hasn't changed._

The meeting turns out to be a gathering of the remaining victors. Haymitch is there, Johanna is there, Beetee, Annie, Enoboria… And, yes, Peeta is there. He's saved me a seat. We touch our fingers together as we wait, not really holding hands, just making sure the other one is there. Snow's rose goes on the table, and with it, it's like he's in the room. I can almost see him standing in the corner, surveying us with his snake eyes. I shove the flower under my chair instead.

Coin starts in on her speech. "I've asked you here to settle a debate. Today we will execute Snow." Multiple pairs of eyes flick to me, then back to Coin. "In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths. However, the suffering in the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship."

If my voice wasn't so rusty, my little gasp might have come out as a cry. Slaughter them? All of them? I think of my prep team, shallow and yet so innocent, like children. I think of real children, Capitol children, killed only because of their lineage. I think of a blonde braid going up in flames. I want to scream how unfair it is, but I can't find my breath, and Coin is already going on.

"However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this."

I breathe again. Peeta moves his hand, bumping it against mine, and I mimic the action.

"So, an alternative has been placed on the table. Since my colleagues and I can come to no consensus, it has been that we will let the victors decide. A majority of four will approve the plan. No one may abstain from the vote. What has been proposed…"

She has everyone's attention now, even Haymitch. We stare at her unblinkingly. I wonder if it makes her uncomfortable. If it does, she doesn't show it.

"Is that in lieu of elimination the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power."

After several beats of no sound, no movement, nothing, everyone starts talking at once. I don't hear what they're saying, though. All I hear is two voices, echoing each other, reading out the new conditions of the Games.

_"…in lieu of elimination the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power."_

_"…as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."_

My hearing comes back just as Peeta yells, "No! I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!"

"Why not? It seems very fair to me."

_It would,_ I think sourly as I watch Johanna recline in her chair.

"Snow even has a granddaughter," she goes on gleefully. "I vote yes."

Enoboria votes yes. Annie votes no. Beetee votes no. They all have their own reasons, logical ones, but I tune them out and think instead about Prim. I know I'm torturing myself unnecessarily, remembering her little body igniting over and over, but it helps me build up hate for Snow. The scent of the rose, still underneath my chair, adds fuel to the flame. Flame. Fire. Always fire.

It's time for me to cast my vote, and I still haven't decided. When I open my mouth, I surprise even myself with what I say. "This happened seventy-five years ago." My voice is a monotone, void of any real emotion. "When they decided to start the Games. People wanted revenge. They wanted blood. And look where that got us."

Suddenly, I know what I'm going to do. I lift my head and look straight into Coin's eyes. The memory of the last time this happened, in Thirteen, when she accused Peeta of being a spy, surges up in me. "I vote no," I enunciate clearly. "No more blood needs to be spilled."

_Not much,_ I amend as I shift and the arrow clatters.

Peeta all but collapses, leaning against me. My vote, along with his, Annie's and Beetee's, makes it a majority. There will be no more Games. Haymitch has yet to cast his vote, but it appears as if it won't matter.

"I'm with the Mockingjay," he says smoothly, and I wonder if he would have said the same thing, had my decision been different.

"Excellent," Coin says, although the way her lips flatten into a line make me think it wasn't the result she wanted. "That carries the vote. Now we really must take our places for the execution."

I snatch the rose out from its hiding place under my chair. "Can you see that Snow's wearing this? Just over his heart?"

"Of course."

"Thank you," I say. I don't need the rose now, of course. But it'd be a shame to waste it.

I give Peeta's hand a last squeeze before I'm escorted away. Who knows what will happen after I release my arrow? He doesn't look away from me until he turns a corner, as if he knows how uncertain it is when he'll see me again. Did he read my plan, from that simple touch? He might have. He knows me, after all.

On the terrace, the crowd's screams burn in my ears. Coin smiles down at me from the balcony. Leers, more like. I look back to Snow, fixing my eyes on the little droplets of blood on the rose fixed above his heart. His hands are tied, so he can't hold a handkerchief to his mouth. Every time he coughs, the rose, the front of his jacket and the ground in front of him is splattered in the stuff.

_Not much,_ I repeat to myself in a sing-song voice. _Not much blood has to be spilled_. I knock the arrow and the crowd goes wild. _Not much. _I aim for the space just below the rose. _Just this much._ I swing my bow upwards and fire. Coin falls. Suddenly, the crowd is as silent as me. Snow's laughter echoes off the cold space around him, gurgling and half-mad. For some reason, the sight of Coin's body, crumpled like a rag doll at the foot of the wall, brings up a little giggle from me, too.

Then I'm swarmed by guards.

"Good night," I whisper to my bow, useless now with an empty quiver. It goes still and I let it slip through my fingers to the floor. I can still taste the giggle that escaped my lips moments ago. Bitter, like dandelion leaves and the black crust of burnt bread. I wonder what the nightlock pill will taste like. I never get to find out. My teeth scrape flesh, and when I look up, Peeta is there. I hold his gaze, dandelions and bread turning to dust in my mouth. How can I take the pill, now?

"I'm sorry," I say simply.

He rests his forehead against mine long enough to say, "I know."

Then they rip us apart, and I focus on doing as much damage to my captors as possible. I don't even really care who I'm hitting. As long as I leave a mark. Kicking, biting, scratching, screaming. They deposit me into my old Training Center room. It's oddly fitting, that I will spend the last days of my life here, where I have awaited my death twice before. For surely, they will not allow the assassin of their president to live. Any day- any minute, really- they will come for me, and then it'll be over.

Except. They don't. I eat what comes to me on trays, marking the time by meals, and spend hours painstakingly rubbing salve onto every inch of torn skin. I miss Peeta. I miss his warm, quiet presence. I count the number of pills they give me and arrange them in a line according to color, because there's nothing else to do. I take out the one lonely, slightly bent coat hanger from the closet and contemplate hanging myself with it. But when I go to test the clothes pole it came from, it doesn't hold my weight, and there's nothing else to hang from. Plus, if I flood the bathroom with soapy water, I can dip it in the slippery mixture and drag it through the air to make large, shimmering bubbles. This works for a few days, before they somehow fix it so I can't make the shower overflow anymore. Oh, well. It was seeping into the carpet, anyway. I push the coat hanger under the door and start picking apart the mattress. That keeps me busy, too, but then during a shower they replace it with one I can't take apart. So much for that.

Maybe this is how they plan to punish me- drive me insane with boredom and dread. Well, that one backfired on them. I'm already insane. And I'm not dreading the day they come to kill me. On the contrary. I'm looking forward to it.

But they still. Don't. Come.

I begin to sing. I delve into the farthest corners of my memory to retrieve all the songs I've ever heard. Every single one my father taught me. With the words and melodies come the strong associated memories of the lake, icy-cold even in the heat of summer, the honeysuckle bush that was my one hiding place, fluffy clouds and, of course, my father. Sometimes, I even hear him singing with me. Sometimes I even see him. I talk to him, absentmindedly, tracing shapes in the window after fogging it up with my breath. So far, they haven't figured out a way of taking this amusement away from me. We talk about the woods and District Twelve and the time he first taught me _this_ song or _that _snare. I tell him about Peeta, about how much I miss him, how sorry I'll be to leave him all alone in the world. He sympathizes. He didn't want to leave my mother, either. Others join us, Madge and Rue and Finnick. I think I really am fully insane now. I am talking to dead people, after all. But, who else am I supposed to talk to? I sing to them, and to myself. I sing all of Prim's favorite songs, willing her to show up along with everyone else so I can tell her how sorry I am, but she doesn't come. I reason that she died too recently. Then again, that might not be a real problem if they keep me in here forever, if their plan is as I suspect. Lock me up in this room for the rest of my life, however long or short it is. Maybe, if my company of deceased would stick around, that wouldn't be so bad. But I stop hallucinating after just a few weeks, and then it's just me and my voice, singing all alone in front of the window.

When Haymitch enters the room, I cock my head speculatively. "Didn't know you were dead," I state indifferently.

"I'm not, yet," he says gruffly.

This catches my attention. If he's alive, and really here, it must be because he's fetching me for my execution. And if it's him, and not Peeta, it probably means I won't be seeing the latter. Ever again. I cringe. _Sorry,_ I whisper in my mind. _Sorry, sorry._

"Your trial's over," Haymitch says.

Is that what was taking so long?

"Come on. We're going home."

Home? Twelve? Not execution? It could be a trap. But, then, what do I have to lose? I stand up slowly, using the window ledge for support, and follow him.

On the hovercraft, Plutarch answers all the questions I don't ask. Coin and Snow are both dead. Paylor is president, now. I've been declared innocent, a word that makes my lips rise in a disconcerting smile at the irony. Apparently, my mental state is what spared me my death. I am, however, confined to District Twelve.

"Peeta?" I ask.

Plutarch's face splits in a wide grin. "Oh, yes, he's all right. Still recovering, of course, but it's going splendidly." He puts a hand on top of mine. I draw back, but he doesn't seem to mind. "That was the most romantic thing I've ever seen," he says earnestly.

"What?" I ask, suspicious.

"When you were… well… Talking to yourself, about how you missed him."

_I wasn't talking to myself, I was talking to my father,_ I correct him.

"It was heartbreaking, actually. People in the courtroom were crying." He puts a hand over his heart dramatically.

So, they _were_ watching me. I wondered.

I haven't responded yet, but this doesn't deter Plutarch. He barrels on. "And singing for your little sister… Tears. It brought tears to my eyes." He brushes away an invisible tear to demonstrate.

"Peeta," I remind him.

"Oh. Yes. He's recovering."

"They say he'll be ready to follow us to Twelve in a few weeks," Haymitch supplies.

I nod, once. _A few weeks_ echoes in my head. Clever Haymitch. _A few weeks _is ambiguous. It could be fourteen days. Or four months, or anywhere in-between. No matter. I've waited this long.

Once at Twelve, Haymitch walks me into my old house. Did I live here? I barely recognize it. The foreign, familiar paintings on the walls stare down at me as I pass. He gets me settled in the kitchen, promises to check on me, and leaves.

In the morning, Greasy Sae and her granddaughter come by to make breakfast. They come every day, twice a day. Sae makes me eat and pries a sentence or two out of me. Her granddaughter plays with random things she finds in the house. I don't mind.

I eat Sae's food. I stare at the fire. On good days, I shuffle to a different room and make myself a little nest on a chair or couch and fall asleep there. I listen to the phone ring. I watch the season change slowly from winter to spring out the window. I sleep. I wait.


	28. Chapter 28

**The next chapter (not this one) will be the last. O.o It's weird to think about. **

**Thank you all so so SO much for your time and patience! **

**And, as always, enjoy. :D**

* * *

One day, I enter the observation room to find that Katniss's screen is empty. Her room holds nothing but the bed. The door hangs open, like a broken jaw. I stare at the little box with the fuzzy picture of the place where Katniss should be. It's a live feed, I know. If she's not in her room, where is she? What have they done with her?

I'm halfway across the room, ready to burst out the door and demand to know what happened, when Dr. Aurelius steps in. I slow my pace and open my mouth to ask the question, but he holds up a hand.

"I know. I'm sorry you weren't informed, but she was moved as soon as the court made a decision."

"Moved her where? What decision?" Please, God, let her be okay. Don't let her already be dead, ruled guilty by a court of bright, twittering Capitol witnesses and cold, sterile psychiatrists. Every day, I've switched between watching the trial and watching Katniss, brushing away the doctors that approached me with schedules and forms to fill out. That could wait. My own recovery, clearing my system of the remaining tracker jacker venom, could wait. I was under lock and key all the time, anyway. The episodes I had didn't affect anyone as long as I was alone in my hospital room. Could it be possible that I've missed the key moment while moving from my room to the observation room? Could I have missed Katniss's death sentence in those few minutes?

Dr. Aurelius waits patiently for me to sort through my thoughts, as he's learned to do by now, and only starts speaking when I give him a slight nod. "The court has ruled that Miss Everdeen's unstable mental condition has pardoned her from her penalty. She has been relocated to District Twelve, in her old residence in the Victors' Village." His glasses glint at me, like the eyes of an owl, as I take in this information. "She is, however, restricted to District Twelve until further notice."

Katniss. In District Twelve. Ruled innocent. I turn this over. "Who else knows where she is?"

"Her location hasn't been released to the general public, if that's what you mean. The court and those involved in it know where she is. Your mentor. Paylor's cabinet. She's well protected from those who might seek revenge for the late president."

After a few moments, I nod again. The spike of adrenaline from walking into the room and seeing Katniss's still screen is fading, leaving in its place a slight headache. I still don't have as much energy as I used to, although I've been walking on a treadmill every day to build up stamina.

Dr. Aurelius leads me back to my room, asking me if I'd like to talk about anything. I tell him about a flashback I had earlier, sketching it out as I talk. He seems surprised. Until now, I've all but refused treatment for myself. But now that the trial is over, I know that's what I should be focusing on. Dr. Aurelius seems to understand this. He smiles at me quietly over his glasses before he starts in on his questions.

At the end of our meeting, I look down to see what I've drawn. It's Mutt Katniss, fangs pressing into her lush bottom lip as she gazes forlornly up from the paper. Wolf ears, the same color as her hair, point towards the ground in a dejected kind of way. She clutches the stems of a katniss flower and a primrose with short, furred fingers. Dr. Aurelius asks if he can see, and I turn the paper around for him.

"She looks lonely," is his comment.

"She is," is my response.

* * *

The road to recovery is long, twisted and bumpy. To fill my time, I paint and paint and paint, so much that my room, closet and even bathroom become cluttered with canvases. One of the nurses suggests I sell the paintings. I won't sell them, but I do start putting them into piles: one to keep, one to destroy and one to donate. The ones I donate, they tell me, go into museums and important buildings, above plaques that cite me as the artist. It's somewhat fulfilling to know that I'm doing something halfway useful.

Sometimes, I think I'm all right, that I'm over the hijacking. Two to three days will go by without incident. And then they'll show me a clip of the Victory Tour or an interview from after the Quell and the whole thing will derail. A shiny memory will engulf me, leaving me screaming and ranting and ripping apart anything I can get my hands on, and then I'll wake up hours later with a morphling pump in my arm and a headache like I cracked my skull open. Relapses can last hours, or days. It's as if the more shiny memories I suppress and prove wrong, the stronger the remaining ones get. And, of course, they don't always go away forever once I've found out the truth. Sometimes one will come back, only slightly altered, and I have to start all over again with it.

As bad as it is, Dr. Aurelius reminds me at least once a week that it could have been much, much worse.

"Miss Everdeen had a hand in that," he says one afternoon, calmly disconnecting the morphling drip from my arm after a particularly violent episode. "Her work in Thirteen did seem to have a tremendous effect on your recovery."

"Her work?" I rasp, reaching for a cup of water. "What work?"

"Well, none of it is official, of course. But she did visit you on occasions not supervised by doctors, did she not?"

"Yes," I say. I allow a small smile to turn up the corners of my mouth. He says _not supervised by doctors_ as if sneaking into a madman's room at night to watch over him while he sleeps is a common occurrence. _Not recommended by doctors,_ more like. _Not reccomended for your health and/or livelihood._ I could have killed her. And yet, I can't bring myself to regret her actions. Like the doctor says, if Katniss hadn't come to see me and talk to me, my condition now could be much worse.

"How is she?" I ask after several sips of water.

Dr. Aurelius takes off his glasses and polishes them on the corner of his shirt. "She… isn't answering my calls," he says, rather uneasily.

"But Haymitch is checking up on her," I persist.

"He told me he would, when they left. But, to date, I haven't received any word from him."

_You'd_ better_ be looking after her,_ I think, imagining the silent threat flying over Panem to Haymitch's house in District Twelve.

Meanwhile, Dr. Aurelius asks me about my appetite, my vision, my head. "How do you feel? Dizzy, or nauseated at all? How's your stability? Do you have any muscle cramps?"

They always insist on going through a whole checklist of symptoms after flashbacks, trying to track down the source of the trouble. I answer their questions, even though I know they won't find much. The source of the trouble is in my mind, not my body.

* * *

Annie visits me every once in a while, as well as Johanna and various other members of our therapy group. They seem to be doing all right- no worse than me, at least. Johanna teases me constantly and fills me in on what's on television. Annie breaks down almost every time she visits, sobbing about Finnick and the baby that will never have a father. I don't mind. I rub her back and hand her more tissues. In return, she covers for me while I spy on Dr. Aurelius. It's a shameful thing to do, I know, but after all I've been through, I just can't trust his word. I sit outside his office door as he calls Katniss's house. I listen to him sigh, hang up, redial and wait as the phone rings and rings. He gives up after about half an hour, and I tiptoe back to my room. Well. Tiptoe as well as I can with my prosthetic. Even with the damage from the fire repaired, the thing doesn't make me any stealthier. It's a good thing Dr. Aurelius isn't a hunter like Katniss or he would have found me out long ago.

"Anything?" Annie prompts as I close the door behind me.

"No." I rest my chin on my hand. "Still nothing."

What is she up to? Did she pull the whole thing out of her wall, as Haymitch did with his? Is she even in the house? Is she even- no. Of course she's alive. She's just ignoring the phone. It's a very Katniss thing to do. If only I could free myself from the cold pit of fear that's settled in my stomach.

Annie watches me with her ocean eyes for a few minutes, rubbing the slight bump in her tummy. Then she stands up and drifts toward the door. Her voice is faint but clear as she says, "I never got to say 'goodbye'. You should take the chance to say 'hello' again before it's too late."

Then she's gone, and I stare at the empty doorway where she was, her words circling in my head. _Take the chance to say 'hello' again. Take the chance to say 'hello' again. Before it's too late._

I'm up and across the hall before I know it. My feet carry me into Dr. Aurelius's office, and before I even know what I'm doing, I blurt, "Can I use your phone?"

He nods, surprised, and I pick up the receiver. Beside the phone is a paper taped to the desk with a list of numbers. I call Katniss's. I don't know what I was expecting. I don't know why my heart plunges when she doesn't pick up. _What did you think?_ I chide myself. _That she'd answer just because it was you calling? How is she supposed to know?_ I replace the reciever.

Dr. Aurelius has been rifling through his papers, quietly trying to look busy for my sake. I draw his attention by clearing my throat. "Sir," I start, weighing my words carefully. "I'd like to request I be relocated to District Twelve. I could continue treatment there, over the phone, if that would be acceptable."

He finishes straightening a pile of papers, tapping them on the surface of his desk before looking up at me. "You know, Peeta, I kind of thought you might say something like that. You must understand that your condition is, as of now, unpredictable. Relocating would introduce a whole new set of variables, which could set you back quite a ways in your recovery. Or, it could be the thing that pushes you past the rough patch. We just don't know."

I lower my gaze. "I know, sir. I'm willing to take that chance, if you thi-"

He cuts me off with a motion. "However," he says, smiling slightly, "Something tells me you're bent on getting back to your girl." From a drawer in his desk he pulls out an envelope. "You'll find in here train tickets, money, your ID and my contact information."

"Tickets?" I wonder. Not _ticket?_

"Should you wish to come back, if this doesn't work out."

I grip the envelope tightly, almost ripping it, as if letting go would mean losing everything it represents. Home. Freedom. Katniss.

"Thank you."

He waves me off with a flick of the wrist, going back to his papers. "No need to thank me. Go on and pack your bags. Oh, and tell Katniss to pick up the phone. I can't pretend I'm treating her forever."

* * *

The sun beats down on the back of my neck as I work at the soil. It's hard and packed, not having been touched for years. The tall, tangled grass from the lawn is trying to sneak into the flower beds, and getting it out is proving difficult. Still, I keep working, meticulously shoveling away the dusty topsoil to reach the good stuff underneath. The light perfume of the primroses wafts towards me from the wheelbarrow at my back.

I went to get them as soon as the sun rose. It was somewhat of a trying excursion, seeing as it was the first time I saw my ruined district. When I got here last night, it was already dark and all I had to do was walk swiftly along the main road with my head down. Walking all the way from my house in the Victors' Village to the edge of the meadow to dig up the primroses brought on a whole series of shiny images. I spent an immeasurable amount of time crouched down next to the fence, battling it out with the venom. It must not have been too awfully long, though, because when I stood up and started digging them up, the sun was still low in the sky, casting thin morning shadows over the ground.

Now, the sun has risen into the sky, and the heat, early in the season though it is, presses in on me. The sun, the sweat, the shovel rubbing blisters on my hands, the smell of freshly upturned soil… The air here is fresh and filled with natural scents, not filtered through a ventilation system and full of sterilizing chemicals. It's real. It keeps me grounded, more than any pill or injection could. I didn't realize how much I despised the hospital, until I escaped it.

_This is why I came here, _I think, breathing in deeply. _Well. Partly._

A door bangs open. Rapid, shuffling footsteps round the corner of the house. Katniss digs in her heels as soon as she catches sight of me, skidding to an abrupt halt. Her eyes widen. I look her over anxiously. Her clothes are badly creased, as if she hasn't changed out of them in some time. Her hair is tangled and dirty. Her skin is paler than I've ever seen it, her eyes red-rimmed and tired.

"You're back." It's the first time I've heard her voice since I listened to her sing through the security camera. It's rough from disuse. Does she not sing anymore, now that she's in Twelve?

"Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," I explain, still looking her over. She's trying to push back the knots of hair hanging in her face, and failing miserably. Her sallow skin flushes in… what? Embarrassment? "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone."

Her eyes wander up and down my frame, taking me in, before flicking to the wheelbarrow. Here comes the real test- when I find out if the primroses were a good idea or a horrible mistake.

"What are you doing?" she says, jabbing her chin at the flowers.

"I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her. I thought we could plant them along the side of the house."

Her expression changes quickly from confusion to rage to recognition. It's impossible to follow her thought process. At last she nods jerkily and flees. I hear the door shut again. Did I do something wrong? Is she all right with the primroses or not? I don't know, but the way she bolted from the garden makes me think she's upset with me. Or, maybe just upset.

Minutes later, there's the crash of something breaking, and then the rush of pipes. I hurry and place the last bush, covering the roots again and tamping down the soil, before setting aside the shovel and wheelbarrow beside my porch. Katniss has locked her front door, but I quickly circle around back and come in by way of the kitchen. I'm greeted by the shards of some sort of vase. So, that's what broke. I look for the flowers that used to occupy it, and it's not long before I spot them in the fire.

I look in her pantry to find that someone has stocked it with a small amount of non-perishable food. Cans of soup collect dust next to packets of dried fruit. I go to her refrigerator, which is thankfully still working, and find a jug of milk. As I pour two glasses, I wonder who's been taking care of her. Not Haymitch, evidently- I found no signs of life from his house when I passed it earlier- and it can't be Katniss herself, by the looks of it. Maybe someone from Twelve has taken it upon themselves to keep her fed. I silently thank them. Upstairs, the water stops running.

I twist my head at the faint sound of a creaking step. Seconds later, Katniss emerges from the hallway, a brush in hand. Her hair is dripping from her shower. She starts when she sees me, faltering. I open my arms, reminding myself that she might not be comfortable with any kind of touching right now and that I shouldn't get my hopes up. But, after a moment, she folds herself into my arms with a little sigh.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I didn't mean to upset you."

She's silent for several heartbeats, and I automatically nuzzle her temple, running my hands over her too-prominent ribs. Then she whispers, "It's okay."

She holds still while I comb through the knots in her hair. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter come to cook breakfast. I suppose she's the one that's been making Katniss eat. She lifts an eyebrow when she finds me combing Katniss's hair in front of the fireplace, but doesn't comment. After a breakfast of eggs, Katniss announces she's going hunting, and I return to my house. There's a lot of dusting to do, after all. A lot of cleaning. Making sure the oven still works. Testing it out by baking. A lot. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm just passing time. Night sneaks up on me, and before I know it, I'm mounting the stairs and falling into bed. For a moment, I wonder if I should go to Katniss, so we can help each other when the nightmares hit. But then I remember my episode from this morning, and the fact that I just arrived in District Twelve. It seemed to shock her that I was even here. It's too soon.

But when I hear her crying, I'm out of bed in an instant. It's just the tiniest sound, a high-pitched, hiccupping keen, but I know it's her. My cracked-open window lets in the sound, and it's as if she's right next to me. Her door is unlocked this time, and I close it behind me before flying up the stairs. I find her curled up in bed, on top of the sheets, clutching a pillow. At her feet is an ugly, squash-yellow cat. _Buttercup?_ I wonder incredulously. It hisses at me, which gets Katniss's attention. In the faint light from the window, her glazed eyes seek me out. She reaches out, a sob breaking through her lips, and I pull her to me for the second time today.

"I m-miss her," she manages through choppy breaths.

I tuck her face into my shoulder, rocking her, and stay silent. Nothing I can say would make it better. Somehow, we shift downwards until all three of us, Buttercup included, are huddled together at the foot of the bed. Katniss strokes him softly between the ears. I resolve to ask her about him tomorrow.

The sky is tinged gray, with a strip of dusky pink near the horizon, by the time we fall asleep.


	29. Chapter 29

**Seeing as this is the last chapter, I felt obligated to make it eeeeeextra fluffy. So, watch out, or you might get buried in the fluff. XD**

**Thank you all SO much for reading and following and leaving reviews. You're all such wonderful readers and I love you almost as much as I love The Hunger Games itself. :) :) :)**

**As always and for the last time in this story... enjoy!**

* * *

**Epilogue**

The stars look frosty tonight. Like the spiked, curling starbursts of ice on the windowpane, except glittering and silver and spread across the sky. It's very cold. The moon, barely even there in its crescent form, gives no light. And while District Twelve's electrical system is infinitely more reliable now than it was before the revolution, it still has its hiccups. Tonight is one of those hiccups- a blackout. It will be fixed by morning. But for now, we are in darkness. The only illumination comes from the cold, winking pinpricks of light above us.

I pull my feet up underneath me, tucking them, slippers and all, under the blanket. My robe and quilt warm me from the outside while the mug of hot chocolate in my hands warms me from the inside out. Peeta does both.

We're sitting on our porch- yes, _our_ porch. He moved in, officially, four months ago. Although, really, he was living in my house long before that. We ate meals at my table, slept in my bed, worked on our book in my living room. The only thing Peeta went home to do was shower, bake and paint, and before long those activities shifted to my house, too. It was my idea. It seemed silly, with him spending all of his time at my house, for all of his things to be in his. I was just being practical when I suggested he move in. But Peeta acted as if I'd given him the sun. He caught me up and spun me around my- our- yard, then slipped and fell in the grass. That kiss reminded me so much of another one. One just before the Victory Tour. Except, instead of fur and snowflakes and lipstick, it was full of teeth and sun and dandelion seeds. That was when Summer was just coming to a close, months after Peeta had returned to Twelve. Now, at the very end of Autumn, we sit huddled up on our porch, mere yards from where we had that kiss. Our first since the Capitol.

I set down my cocoa and turn my head, nudging the empty space in front of me, until Peeta notices. He knows what I'm looking for. Our lips meet softly, and despite the bitter cold and the frost around us, I'm very warm. His arms link loosely around my waist, and my palms rest against his chest.

A slam is followed by incoherent hollers, and I know Haymitch has stumbled his way out of his house in the dark. I pull away from Peeta, sighing, and silently count down from three. On 'zero', we hear several thumps and then a slurred swear. Haymitch falling down his porch steps. Then, several more thumps, a crash of breaking glass- that must have been his bottle- the creak of his door and another slam. We sit still for a moment, listening to him bang around his house, before determining he's not dead and turning back to each other.

Just as our lips connect again, the door slams open a second time and Haymitch yells, "I know you two 're smoochin' over there! I c'n feel you makin' googly eyes fr'm here!"

I duck my head, cheeks flaming, even though there's no way he can see us in the darkness. Peeta just chuckles.

"Is he ever going to stop doing that?" I grumble.

"Probably not." He hooks a hand behind one of my knees and pulls my legs over his lap. I tuck my cold toes under his own knees. We're all knotted together, like one of the soft, salty pretzels Peeta makes on cool afternoons. After the cheese buns, I think they're the best thing he makes. He sells them by the dozen at his stand in the town center. Next summer, when they rebuild the bakery, he'll be able to sell more than just pretzels and rolls. He'll have the space and materials necessary to running a real business. He'll be able to earn all the money we have, at least, in his mind, fairly.

He hates it. He hates that we still get paid for winning the Games. He's told me more than once that he wishes they would just forget about us and leave us alone. He wants to earn everything he spends- "So that what we buy, what we eat, what we have in our home, actually _means_ something," he says. He's made multiple calls to the Capitol, politely requesting they stop sending us our winnings. The people on the other end of the line, of course, laughed and told him how sweet he was and said we were perfectly entitled to our boatloads of money and to expect the next payment soon.

Our winnings aren't the only things that remind me of the Capitol. We live in the Victors' Village. Even in Twelve, and even with the other houses filled by new families, the place reeks of Snow. The artificial, blood-red roses by the gate, no matter how many times we go about trying to destroy them, somehow hang onto life just enough to spread their ghastly scent. It overrides the sweetness of the primrose blossoms and chokes me. Though they're deactivated, I know there are still bugs in the house. We haven't been pulling up floorboards to find and get rid of them, after all. Somewhere, in a white room, someone could be listening to our every conversation. Dr. Aurelius assures me they're not. They're not activated. But still… they could be. The TV, collecting dust. The odd, shiny appliances in the kitchen. The echoing, empty rooms, all of them with some dreamed-up Capitol purpose, unused and locked. The Capitol's symbol, discreetly stamped into the wood of a floorboard, like a little note. A little threat, letting us know that we're never alone. We're never done. They will always be watching us. It's like the single, white rose in my room, when I first came to Twelve after the bombing. It seems as if, no matter how much time goes by, the old Capitol will forever have ways of telling us we can't be free.

As I'm thinking of this, and staring at the ice-bright stars, something hits me. At first, the _something_ is so big, so impossible, that I don't even know what it is. Then the haze clears and I see the details. My eyes get wide as I realize the possibilities. Think through the complications. Consider the implications. Would they, if we asked-? I could- yes- and it would be close enough for- but far enough away- this could work- oh, this could _work! _My hands start to tremble. _We could do this!_

Suddenly, Peeta is tucking my face into his shoulder and rocking me, murmuring. He thinks I'm going through a painful memory. I wriggle away, much to his confusion, and say, "Peeta."

"Yes?"

"Peeta, I've got it."

"What?" he sounds a bit alarmed, and I take his hands in mine to reassure him.

"The new bakery they're building in the summer, it's close to the fence, isn't it?"

The fence, kept up for real security reasons now. To keep the animals out, not the people in. It even has gates, accessible by anyone in the district.

"Yes. Why?"

I press my lips together, taking time to put my idea into comprehensible words, before opening my mouth. "What if we built a house in the woods?"

His silence frightens me, and I hurry on, babbling, avoiding his eyes by turning my gaze to the sky once again.

"Not far in, but just a couple of miles. Half an hour's walk, at most. It would be within walking distance of the new bakery, and the rest of the district, but far enough away that no one would bother us." I'm wringing my hands. My voice shakes violently. He's going to say no, and I'm going to feel stupid for suggesting it, and our whole lovely, cold, starlit night will be ruined because of my eagerness. "We would build a fence around the house, of course, to keep out animals, but with a yard and a pen- we could keep chickens and goats-" I choke down a little hiccup, trying to convince myself it's not a sob. It's been almost a year since I returned to District Twelve, and my emotions are still so unstable. "I'd be able to hunt so much more easily, with just a few steps to the woods, and maybe we could convince the Capitol to stop paying us, if we let them build it, and it would be quiet, and-"

I can't breathe. Peeta is crushing me so tightly to his chest that I think my lungs might collapse. And I'm not the only one "hiccupping".

"I just want to escape the Capitol. Once and for all."

He's turning me around, knocking our cups of hot chocolate over in his haste. The rich, brown liquid drips off the beams of the porch. It will freeze into a chocolate river before long. He peppers my face with kisses, half-laughing, half-crying. I respond in kind, the nervousness in my belly disintegrating with every feathery touch of his lips. "You don't… You don't think it's a bad idea?"

"Are you joking?" He kisses my temples, my eyelids, my nose, my mouth. "Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Let's do it. Let's leave. Let's show them they don't own us."

I smile, but then something occurs to me. "Oh, but… What about the primroses?"

"We'll take them with us. They handled being dug up once, they can handle it one more time. They'll probably be happy to be back in the woods."

He continues to nuzzle me, fingers locked in my hair. I let out a deep breath and fall against him. We really can do this. We really can start over somewhere new. In the woods, where the Capitol hasn't set foot.

"We should tell Dr. Aurelius," I whisper against his cheek.

He shakes his head, tightening his hold on me. "Not until morning," he says, pleads, almost.

So we stay on the porch, wrapped up with blankets and with each other, and watch the frosty stars fall slowly across the sky until the pink and gold dawn creeps over the horizon.

* * *

We have three goats- two dams and one billy- and about twenty chickens. The fence around our house is high and sturdy, but woven and made of mossy posts and maple boughs, so it looks more like a natural extension of the forest than a boundary. Our cellar is stocked with at least a decade's worth of preserved food, and the porch swing is strewn with pillows. Sometimes, on warm nights, we sleep there. On cold nights, we retreat to the fireplace. There are only two floors in our little cottage, if you don't count the cellar, and it's compact enough that the fireplace alone is enough to heat the house sufficiently. But we don't have to worry about that. Peeta's ovens are blazing nearly nonstop, always filling the house with one delectable smell after another. Blueberry pie, gingerbread, pastries, raisin bread, cheese buns, pretzels, and even dandelion bread, a recipe he came up with after I told him dandelions were edible. Our house always smells good. And it always has a light in each window, a lit oil lamp, just in case a traveler passes by seeking shelter. We don't go looking for guests, but Peeta insisted on this little gesture. Yet another example of the golden heart I will never be able to earn.

I watch the little lights grow larger as I trudge towards home, my ancient game bag in hand and my bow on my back. Living out here, with no one observing us and five miles' worth of forest between our gate and the district, I can bring my weapons with me, straight through the front door. Even after five years, it still amazes me. I give Mica, our silver-flecked horse, a pat on the way past the tiny stable, which is some yards from the house and just big enough for one horse and its tack. We have the horse so Peeta can ride it to town, so he doesn't have to walk ten miles every day just to get to the bakery and then back home. I do it all the time, but with his prosthetic, it's better not to risk it. Of course, he insists on getting me a horse, too. I expect I'll come home to find a filly sharing Mica's stable. I'll have to build an extra stall for it. Oh, well. I built everything else out here. Except for the building itself, of course, and the larger pieces of furniture. Our house is full of my handiwork, from chairs made of young aspen trunks lashed and nailed sturdily together to the oak-wood porch swing, sanded and polished to a shiny smoothness, to the front door, which is covered in a jumble of carved leaves and blossoms of every type. I was busy, the first year or so here. Peeta was, too. There isn't a room left without a mural of some sort on at least one of the walls.

I trot up the porch steps and through the door, hanging my bow and quiver on a peg next to my father's old hunting jacket. Peeta's making something with the fish I caught this morning, I can tell by the aroma wafting from the kitchen. I stop in the hallway and take a moment just to look around. Our house. Free of the Capitol. Free of prying eyes. Free in every way. Full of my carvings and Peeta's paintings and dried bunches of dandelions and the tang of pine wood smoke. Soft fur rugs. Rich ciders. A cellar bursting with food. Feather pillows. Primrose bushes below the windows. Herbs hanging from the rafters. Portraits of our families above the fireplace. And two extra rooms upstairs- "Guest rooms," Peeta explains smoothly whenever I ask. But the walls are painted in the softest pastel shades of blue, pink and yellow. The furniture, not made by me but ordered straight from District Seven, is made of smooth, white fabric and pale wood. I know they're not guest rooms. Peeta hopes for them to be rooms for children.

He asked me for children, shortly after we had our toasting two years after we moved here. I couldn't fathom it. I said no. But after, I looked around, as I am now, and saw the woodsy luxury around us. I saw how this cottage in the forest was everything my father ever wanted for Prim and I. And I told Peeta, "Maybe." Maybe, someday. But not yet.

I make my way into the kitchen, dropping my foraging bag on the table, and pull Peeta away from the stove. He drops the spoon in his hand and turns to face me, smiling a greeting. I rise up on tiptoes, so we're the same height, and kiss him. Then I snuggle into his shoulder, my arms around his neck, his around mine. This is how we usually end up, whether standing or in bed, before we go to sleep. Our scars match up, this way, so we form one whole, broken person. But, no. Not broken. Over the years, we've healed. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But we have each other, and the book, and our home. That's all we really need.

After dinner, upon Peeta's request, I sing every line of the valley song while he plaits and unplaits my hair. I taught him how to braid it last winter, and he's barely left it alone since. The fire crackles, and over the faint white noise, I can hear that the birds outside the have quieted their evening conversations to listen. I sing so often now, alone amongst the trees, that I think they recognize my voice. Peeta is like a child himself, the way he begs to hear me sing. "Another one," he always says. "Just one more song."

_If I hadn't sang on the first day of school, none of this would exist,_ I realize. _Peeta wouldn't have fallen in love with me. We wouldn't have teamed up. We wouldn't have held out the berries. We wouldn't have sparked a revolution. We wouldn't have won our freedom. I was just a little girl... I had no idea what I was doing when I stood up on that stool._

The old Capitol is gone. The Games are gone. Snow is gone. In their place, we have food, equality, a brighter future. Hope, in the form of a small, yellow blossom.

And to think, it all started with, _"Down in the valley, the valley so low. Hang your head over, hear the wind blow." _


End file.
